The Trials of Finding Oneself in the 17th Century
by Nerds United
Summary: I bolted straight out of bed, standing quicker than a bored, hyperactive sevenyearold ever could, and that’s really saying something. “I can’t miss 1st pd. today, I have a test on plantains!” oo.Sound like an anachronism? Maybe that's how it's intended.oo
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is indeed a self-insert fic, despite the fact that generally, I hate self-inserts... well, at any rate, the first chapter is called _Essay Writing and Lactose Intolerance_ and doesn't involve potc too much, but don't worry, the story is a self insert and will be set in potc later. I have tweaked my personality a bit, but that's just a safety precaution.

I sat gloomily at the computer on a cold, bleak Tuesday night, almost in tears, the glow of the screen jarring to the eye in the darkness, trying in vain to write an adequate conclusion to the essay that I was trying to finish in time for the due date—Wednesday, 8:00 AM, my LA class. It was possibly the worst essay I had ever tried to write, featuring run-ons in frightening abundance, incomplete ideas, and a constant theme of self-hatred that most teachers were not fond of or favorably impressed by in writing.

If it had been descriptive paragraphs, I would have pumped out pages, no sweat, and enjoyed it too, but it wasn't, it was formal writing, a paper in which I had to argue the point that the narrator of Poe's "The Telltale Heart" was _not_ insane. And now, my brain, which had been sufficiently fried by my math homework, was nobly insisting that finishing the essay would be lying. _Of course the narrator to "The Telltale Heart" was insane, _it griped irritably, protesting and stubborn, stoically telling the rational side of my mind that concluding the paper would be some sort of heinous crime. This gave me cause to wonder if perhaps _I _was insane, seeing that I was arguing—with myself no less—about whether or not I should conclude a paper that was worth at least half of my Fall semester grade. The rational side of my brain woke up from its nap. _Who cares if it's lying, I have to finish this paper or I'll flunk the damn class! _

"Aaaauuuuggghhh…." I groaned, wishing that I had taken a Lactaid pill with the pizza I had eaten earlier. But no, I had to be stupid and pronounce cockily, much to the amusement of my friends, "Screw lactose intolerance, I'm tired of dealing with it!"

I rushed to the bathroom. _This is no way to get my paper done, _I thought miserably, but couldn't return to the computer room. I'd probably throw up on the computer. _Much wiser to throw up in the toilet, _I thought sardonically, my humor bordering on the acerbic as I puked.

"Well, this is craptastic," I muttered under my breath, not wanting to wake up my parents for fear that they wouldn't let me turn my paper in the next day. _This paper is the cause of my problems; if it's going to cause me so much trouble tonight then by God it's going to be turned in on time! _I thought, wanting to just lie down and sleep.

Instead, I wiped my mouth off with a tissue and washed my hands, trudging back to the computer and stealthily easing myself into the black chair. I smiled in self-satisfaction. I had finally perfected the art of "keeping the squeaky chair silent." I turned my attention back to the unfinished essay. Scowling at it did not help, but I was open to any ideas and gave the glowing computer screen my most hateful glower. No response. A salty, warm tear of self-pity escaped my eye and made its way down my cheek. I swiped angrily at it and impatiently wiped my wet hand off on my faded jeans. I started typing, but what came out wasn't exactly the kind of conclusion I had been looking for.

_I don't know why the Hell I'm arguing this damn point. Of course the narrator was insane, he freaking killed a guy and hid said dead person's body under the floorboards! Why would I think he's anything but crazy? Why are we doing this stupid assignment? What's the point? Exactly, there is no point! Except to torture us maybe! I'd much rather be watching Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, right now. This damn paper is keeping me from my obsession!_

I hastily deleted it and grimaced at the computer screen, which seemed to smirk. No, that was most certainly _not_ the kind of conclusion I was looking for. I put my head down almost on top of the keyboard, facing the table and closed my eyes, trying to think. A shiver crawled down my spine and I thought I heard a whirring noise, but I ignored it, thinking, _it's probably just the computer or the air conditioning._ _Or I might be hallucinating from lack of sleep,_ I added grimly. I sighed and turned my mind back to the conclusion of my paper.Of course, I hadn't intended to fall asleep…

A/N: please review if you get the chance. I'll be adding to this very soon... like in the next two minutes. Those of you who do not know of Lactose Intolerance--it basically means that the person can't eat dairy without throwing up. Or other such nastiness. I hope you like the beginning of my story!


	2. Realization

I awoke with a jerk as I always did when my blasted alarm clock went off, blaring Beethoven's fifth symphony, and then almost fell back asleep, but this time it wasn't my dramatic classical alarm music that woke me up. My head pounded and I said fuzzily to myself out loud, "Note to self, don't fall asleep on the computer room desk." I closed my eyes and groaned. The nauseating smell of filth, pigs, and dirty men did not help my headache very much.

Dimly, I realized that somehow I was moving—and not of my own accord. "What?" I mumbled blearily. My eyes slowly fluttered open, and I noticed that I was looking at a grimy wooden floor that seemed to jerk sickeningly as I was jostled. That sure woke me up.

"What the Hell!" I shouted on impulse, and started to wiggle, trying to squirm out of—well, out of _someone's_ grasp. Kicking, biting and shouting like some fiendish imp from Hell, I twisted my neck to get a look at my captor, but in that instant he dropped me. Instinct took over, and instead of just falling, I slapped the ground with my hands and rolled up to a sitting position, quickly standing with my knees bent a little, my limbs now a little looser than before. I prepared myself for a fight, looking around at the rather odious and gruff looking men who had circled me, but as I did so, comprehension tickled at the back of my mind. My eyes unconsciously narrowed until I realized that I was going squinty-eyed and I shook it off.

My hands dropped to my side and I stood normally, in a more relaxed way, seeing as they weren't attacking me. I squinted around at what I now gathered was a boat, and I looked at the sailors—no, pirates—oddly, trying to remember where I had seen all this before. I gaped as a realization dawned in my mind. _Pirates of the Caribbean! _At this thought, I immediately looked up to see—black sails. I shuddered and then looked back at the pirates again. "Well, I'll be damned," I said incredulously, disbelief written clearly across my face. "This is the Black Pearl." _Am I dreaming? _I wondered to myself, and then gave myself a pinch. I winced. _Not dreaming._

"Aye," a man said, and I realized that it was Mr. Gibbs. The other pirates looked rather impatient.

"You're going to kill me now aren't you?" I said, blinking several times before letting it sink in. My mind frantically cried, _I don't wanna die! I never got to turn in that blasted paper! _But I tried to keep cool. "So how do you plan to kill me?" I asked. When they looked at me funny, like I had escaped from the psychiatric ward or had several heads, I added hastily, "Just out of curiosity, that's all."

Mr. Gibbs was the first to reply. "Well, we were planning to throw ye overboard actually," he answered uncertainly, looking ill at ease.

I peered over the edge of the boat. "I'm guessing there are sharks in there?" Gibbs shrugged, while the other pirates nodded vigorously, looking menacing. "How far is it to shore?" I asked, waiting with trepidation for the answer. _I won't mention that I didn't make swim-team... _I thought.

A new voice joined the crowd, also familiar. "Not too far love, it shouldn't take too long for you to swim to shore," he replied humorously. _Ah_, _this would be Jack Sparrow—oh sorry, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow,_ I corrected my mind sarcastically.

"Hello," I said with determined cheerfulness, "I can't say it's nice to meet you, but it's certainly interesting."

He laughed. "Interesting to meet you also. Wot's your name?"

That annoying voice at the back of my mind told me to give a false name, and for once in my life, it sounded like it had a good idea. "I'm… Cara Laney," I lied hastily, settling on using the name of a character from one of my stories. "May I ask a question?"

"Sure," he said mildly, giving me this odd look that was rather hard to decipher and faintly questioning.

"Since you all are planning to throw me overboard, would you mind terribly if I just jumped in myself? It would save you the trouble of throwing me…" I said, trailing off pathetically.

Laughter danced in his dark, Kohl-rimmed eyes and I found myself wishing that I could have kept my mouth shut. "But throwing you in is 'alf the fun, love," he replied merrily. "Go on lads, throw 'er in."

"Wait!" I cried before they could even pick me up. One had his hand on my arm, so I gave him an irritated look and slapped his hand, jerking away, thinking, _I ought to growl at him. _I settled on quickly baring my teeth before turning to the captain and trying a smile that ended up being more of an exercise in stretching the lips. "Isn't there something I could do until you end up on land?" I asked desperately.

"Wot exactly are you good at doing?" he said, raising one eyebrow, looking skeptically at me as if I was totally useless. Which, I realized, I probably _was_ in this situation.

"Umm…" I murmured unintelligibly, trying to think of something other than writing, reading, and music. "I can cook…" I said, cringing a little at the sheer idiocy of that notion. _As if they need someone to cook. _

"Sorry love, you're going to have to do better than that!" he said laughingly in response.

"Shall I just list what I can do, be it useful or not?" I said with a sardonic smile. Without waiting for them to answer I continued. "I can cook, clean, read, write, sing," I grimaced. "I can serve, do arithmetic, play piano…" I exhaled sharply in exasperation. "Oh, never mind! None of that is useful!" I exclaimed, and then, being close in proximity to the edge of the boat, I started to fling myself over the railing, but was grabbed by several pairs of hands. "Damn it," I muttered.

Of course Jack Sparrow—excuse me, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow—was laughing at me, so I scowled murderously at him. He kept laughing, undaunted, and then regained his composure, catching his breath. "I 'aven't laughed like that in a while. If for nothing else than to make me laugh, why don't you stay onboard, but I must warn you; we're not going to be on land anytime soon, savvy?" He looked me up and down, giving me an incredulous look. "Wot are you wearing?"

I looked down. "Jeans and a tank top," I replied easily, and at their blank stares I added a little confusedly, "Which I guess would be like… breeches and an undershirt in this time period." I winced, blushed, and looked down at the floor. It must have looked like I was mighty interested in the floor, because my gaze did not travel upwards for a long time. _Don't do anything stupid, don't do anything stupid, don't do anything stupid! _I chided myself in my head.

"Wot's so nice about the floor a' me boat?" the captain asked dryly.

I looked up and upon seeing suppressed laughter in his eyes, I hastily looked down again, my cheeks burning.

"Well, Miss Laney, welcome to the Black Pearl. Come this way please," he said, shaking his head slightly at my strangeness.


	3. KitchenLike

**A/N: Ladies and gents, I give you... Kitchen-Like. Can you tell that I can't think of chapter names properly?**

**My most sincere apologies that I forgot the disclaimer previously.**

**Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING. IF I DID, I WOULD BE MUCH HAPPIER RIGHT NOW, AND I'D BE ABLE TO BUY MY OWN COMPUTER.**

Despite the fact that I almost never prayed in my life, I prayed then, hands clasped together, muttering whatever snippets of prayers I knew from church while following Jack. He twisted around to see what I was muttering and then noticed my clasped hands.

"Do you pray often?" he asked, eyebrows lifted quizzically, curiosity and humor alight in his brown eyes. The suppressed laughter that I saw burning there made me wonder—with more than a little suspicion—just what he was thinking.

"No," I replied flatly. "Only when I'm in trouble." I winced again. _So much for 'don't do anything stupid,' _I thought sourly.

To my surprise, he laughed outright. "Then keep praying love, you're not out of trouble yet."

"Great," I said sarcastically, unable to resist my sardonic sense of humor. "Thanks ever so much for the warning."

The corner of his mouth twitched as if requesting to smile and then he grinned devilishly, showing a number of gold-capped teeth. "Your welcome, love, anytime, really." We ended up in front of a door and he opened it with a flourish. "Wait here, fair lady," he said dramatically gesturing inside the room. I just rolled my eyes—which were an unremarkable shade of brown, not the lovely sparkly blue turquoise color of the churning ocean—and walked into the room, finding that it was some sort of kitchen-like area. I say kitchen-_like_ because it was ill equipped: a misshapen roasting pan, a couple of banged up sauté pans, a chipped, old platter, a few plates, three wooden mugs (most likely for beer) and some odds and ends of mismatching silverware. Jack left, closing the creaky door behind him. "A refrigerator, a refrigerator, my kingdom for a refrigerator," I muttered.

I opened the wooden drawer nearest to me to scope out any possible tools. Inside laid a large wooden spoon, an empty jar, and a bottle half full with an amber-colored liquid. I took the cork stopper off of the half empty bottle and cautiously sniffed the inside. My head reeled from the fumes of hard liquor enough that I put my hand next to my temple. _Rum? _I wondered. I replaced the stopper and quietly closed the drawer, moving on to the next.

Inside the next crude drawer laid a sheaf of papers, to which I raised my eyebrows at. _I was under the impression that most pirates are illiterate... what would they need paper for? _I shuffled through them, my hand finally coming to rest on something smooth and cylindrical, feeling like glass. I pulled out a vial that was filled with clear liquid and labeled in a slanted, cursive handwriting, "_A Woman's Tears_." I looked dubiously at it, and hid it once again beneath the papers. _Why would someone bottle a woman's tears unless they belonged in the loony bin wearing a nice, warm straight jacket?_ I wondered.

The yellowed parchment was mostly blank except for one sheet near the bottom of the pile that appeared to be a seventeenth century receipt of sorts. _This is the seventeenth century, isn't it?_ _Why didn't I pay attention in Social Studies last year? _I thought irritably._ I wish I'd studied for that test on British history. _I read the words on the crumbling piece of paper and my mouth dropped open in blatant surprise. _Why would the East India Trading Company be selling human hair? _I wondered, disgusted.

I closed the drawer and sank down wearily to sit on the ground. _Who cares if my clothes get dirty? _I thought sourly, _It will make me fit in. _I rest my head in my hands, sitting cross-legged, my elbows on the general vicinity of my knees, trying to ignore the frightening lurching of the ship. _I wish I could have a diet Coke right now, _I thought wistfully. At that moment, I'd probably have sold my soul to the devil if it meant getting a diet Coke. My tongue felt limp and heavy in my mouth, and it took me far too long to swallow due to the absence of liquid in my mouth.

It seemed the esteemed personage of the captain would not be coming back for a while, so I began to sing to pass the time, starting with all the songs that were nice, pretty melodies, and planning to end on the songs that were more an exercise in shouting than singing. I sang quietly at first, but my voice gained strength as it warmed up. Being a classically trained singer, I had always scoffed at pop singers, and so sang—well, classical music. Of course I did like some bands from the British Invasion… and Steely Dan was a favorite of mine, along with some classic rock, but mostly I sang from my classical repertoire. I closed my eyes, and began to sing all the classical songs I knew, starting with the French ones—and believe me, singing all of the classical songs in my memory was a bit of a lifetime undertaking.

I had started the fifth French song—a song by Claude Debussy called Beau Soir—when Jack made his glorious reappearance. Earlier, I had felt the impulse to give him a sarcastic standing ovation when he finally did come back to the room, but I had firmly squashed it, worried that if I did so he would throw me overboard. So when he came in, I was loudly—but prettily mind you—singing a French art song from the Renaissance with my eyes closed, sitting cross-legged on the dirty floor, my back leaned against a chest of drawers.

I can only assume that he came in and watched me sing for a while before saying amusedly, " 'Ello love."

I squeaked and jumped, alarmed, nearly a foot in the air—I swear, that's what it felt like—and then opened my eyes and looked over to Jack. "Oh my God," I breathed in relief, hand to my heart, "Don't scare me like that, Ja—Captain. You could have been a—" I stopped short as my mind silently filled in the blank. _A pirate. _

"A pirate?" he supplied, and I gaped openly at him, thinking, _What are you, some kinda mind reader? _He then pouted, saying quirkily, "But it's fun to scare you!"

When my pulse finally slowed down and I realized that it was just Jack, and he wasn't going to attack me, I looked up expectantly and said, "Well?"

"Well wot?" he asked.

"Did you have something to say? Or did you come in here for the sole purpose of scaring me?" I said nonchalantly.

"Well, if you 'adn't noticed, and you probably didn't, it's nearly dark, and you're not going to be sleeping on the floor in 'ere. There should be a hammock folded up in one of these drawers, so look for it, and if you find it you can use it… if not, then… there's a chair there," he said, gesturing to the chair in a way that made him look tipsy, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

I opened one of the drawers that I hadn't looked in yet and took out the hammock, which was hopelessly tangled. "Well, here's the hammock," I said, raising one eyebrow, eyeing it with distaste. I tugged at one of the many knots and snarls. "I'm guessing your perception of 'folded up' is not the same as mine," I drawled dryly.

"Eh, close enough," he said.

"Good enough for government work," I muttered quietly, more to myself than to Jack. I set to "unfolding" (more like untangling) the blasted hammock.

He gave me a quizzical look. "That's treasonous you know," he said, his head tilted oddly to one side.

"Hmm, What?" I murmured unintelligibly, looking up from the hammock, my attention now on Jack.

"Wot you said… it's treasonous," he said, looking very odd indeed, and rather confused.

"Treason…" I repeated, and then snorted. "How would they find out anyway?"

"They won't. Not to worry. It's not like I'll tell," he said wryly, as if remembering something. I gave him a funny look, but he didn't notice. "We'll be coming in to Tortuga tonight, so sleep lightly."

_Sleep lightly? _I thought, _I might as well just not sleep at all! _But all I said was, "Tortuga?" a faint air of disgust in my words.

"Tortuga, love. Savvy?" he replied in that self-satisfied way of his, smiling fiendishly.

I raised an eyebrow. A moment later, I pursed my lips, trying to think of something to say. "Should be… interesting," I tried. He almost turned to leave, but then I remembered something. "Hey, didn't you say we wouldn't be on land anytime soon?"

"I lied," he answered coolly, shrugging offhandedly.

"Seems to be a common occurrence." I was reasonably proud of my mask of polite disinterest, seeing as normally I would have pointed an accusatory finger at him and shouted something obscene. _Like the time with the math teacher who told us that the quadratic formula was the equation for an ellipse and I chucked the textbook at her... I missed her of course... just my luck... _I thought, beginning to reminisce wistfully until I shook myself free from the memory.

"A penny for your thoughts?" he asked, peering curiously into my face, his dark eyes enigmatic, probably wondering what I had been thinking when I remembered a certain math teacher and textbook.

"A shilling for your silence?" I countered. He laughed good-naturedly and gave one of his trademark grins, leaving the room with a long creak as the door closed. I looked sourly at the stubbornly knotted hammock and then shrugged, sitting and leaning against the drawers once more, falling into a light, easily disturbed sleep.

**A/N: reviews are always welcome...**


	4. Drunk

**A/N: I actually got reviews! wow! Anyway, I own nothing. Welcome to the chapter called, 'Drunk'**

Some time later, the voice of Jack effortlessly penetrated through the veil of sleep that lay over me. "Gettin' your beauty rest Miss Laney?"

I was instantly awake. "I've been getting 'beauty rest' for all of my life, and look, it hasn't done me any good," I replied, gesturing to myself.

"It's not that bad," Jack said speculatively, looking me up and down, which mad me blush. _Stupid, _I chided myself in annoyance, _you gave that one to him. _A moment later, he shrugged and moved on. " 'Ere," he said nonchalantly, negligently tossing a clean—well, clean isn't the word unless it's a relative term—set of clothes at me. "Come out when you're ready."

"Thanks," I said off-handedly, looking at the clothes with slight chagrin. He left again, and I looked furtively around the makeshift kitchen, determining that I wasn't being watched, and changed, slipping my jeans off to replace them with drably colored breeches, and placing a tunic that had probably once been white over my tank top. It was essentially a plain, slightly worn out V-neck with lacing all across the V part of it, which I tied quite tightly, keeping in consideration the company I would be around. A pair of shabby, but intact boots replaced my sandals, and I folded up my other clothes, placing them neatly on the chair in the room. _Will I ever see these clothes again? _I wondered. Not that they were the greatest clothes ever, but those jeans were like veterans of the war that was my life. I patted the jeans fondly, let's face it, we all grow to love certain clothes, don't we?

I opened the door, albeit timidly, but at least I had the courage to open the door. New clothes had never really been friends of mine—I hated it when people commented on my appearance, be it positive or negative. No one spared my appearance a single glance, much to my relief. It was rather bracing to know that I had lost some weight during the school year, and probably looked better than I ever did at home. In the distance the bars and whorehouses and God knows what else on Tortuga glowed, the welcoming firelight flickering enough that I could see it from the distance. It reminded me of fireflies shining to one another. I almost snorted at my stupid poetic tendencies. _Only I could go mushy over a place like Tortuga, _I thought ruefully, smiling.

"Wot are you smiling at?" the captain asked, one eyebrow cocked in a way that made him look questioning in a slightly drunken way.

"My stupid poetic tendencies," I answered without thinking, and then blushed. _Why can't I just keep my mouth shut? And why did God make it so that I blush so much? _I wondered to myself, impatient with my own stupidity.

"Such as?" he prompted, his eyebrow lifting further, threatening to disappear into his hairline.

"Such as seeing Tortuga and then thinking 'Oh, the firelight looks just like fireflies' like some mushy, soft, poetic moron." I laughed at myself, shaking my head.

"Well, it kind of does," he said, obviously joking by the way the laughter skipped across his face.

"I suppose," I agreed, adding sarcastically, my humor going into the dangerous but fun land of acerbity, "That is until you hear the bar-fights and the cursing and the obscenities… yes, I suppose other than those few minor details, it does seem like innocent little fireflies."

Jack went forward in the crowd of pirates, giving orders and I fell behind, feeling more than a little depressed. My sarcastic, happy joking had of course been a façade—I missed my home, my family, and I never had finished that paper. I sighed quietly, fighting the urge to cry. My stubbornness won over, and I kept my emotions hidden within myself, my face cool and calm, but my shoulders slumped a little, feeling as if there was an aching pressure there. It seemed as if the pressure would never release I would be stuck with the burden in this strange time period for the rest of my life.

The pirates soon dispersed throughout the buildings, leaving me on my own in a strange, rather hostile seeming place. I found the nearest bar and slumped dejectedly at a stool. "Do you have anything that's nonalcoholic?" I asked the barkeep, pretty much knowing what the answer would be.

"No," he said with disdain, "we've got rum, beer, and whiskey. Take yer pick."

"No thanks, I think I'll just sit here," I replied politely.

"Rum it is," he said gruffly and filled a mug with the amber liquid, placing it in front of me. I looked down at the mug, and then up at the barkeep, and then down again. I gave the bartender an incredulous look. He shrugged and left me alone with the mug of rum to attend to another customer. The only alcohol I'd ever had was the watered down wine at communion in church. The cloudy rum seemed to smirk at me, and I pushed it away, my eyes focusing on a nonexistent object in space. I admit that I zoned out for a while, probably looking utterly depressed while staring off into the distance at nothing in particular.

It took me a while to realize that the man who had somehow ended up sitting next to me was talking to me. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said 'are ye gonna drink that?'" he repeated.

"No, please, take it, I don't want it!" I said, shoving it at him.

He took it gladly and drank a large gulp of it. "Ye seem troubled," he ventured.

"Ha! Troubled…" I repeated. "HA! That's the understatement of the year." His comment struck me as funny in a cynical, pessimistic way.

"Have some rum!" he exclaimed. "Ye look completely sober."

"I am," I said irritably.

"Why!" he asked, aghast that anyone could possibly be sober.

"Because drunkenness is sinful, shameful, and possibly quite trying. It is the epitome of stupidity and vulgarity to drink oneself insensate," I snapped.

"It helps," he said.

"No, not in the long run," I rebutted.

"Well, it helps in the short run then," he said, determinedly cheerful.

I scowled. "Not in my case."

"Is there anything I can do for ye?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"That's disgusting," I said, then revised my statement to, "You're disgusting."

I considered slapping him across the face, but then decided that was to clichéd and kicked him hard in the shin. "I'll have none of that talk. You are odious and vulgar." I turned away, faintly hearing him say, 'ow' as he limped off to find someone who was a little more accommodating than me. I scoffed and then lapsed once more into a state like that of unconsciousness.

A familiar voice broke my somewhat comatose-like condition. " 'Ello, love, why aren't you drinking? That's generally why people go to bars." _Grr... _I thought, scowling, _Jack Sparrow... oh sorry, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow. _

"Because drunkenness is sinful, shameful, and possibly quite trying. It is the epitome of stupidity and vulgarity to drink oneself insensate," I recited dispassionately.

"Who told you that?" he asked with a mild tone of distaste.

"I told myself that. It was my idea. If someone else had told me, I wouldn't have listened. I don't trust other people. Come to think of it, I don't always trust myself," I replied.

"Well _that's_ depressing," he said, unsteady on his feet, wavering like a one-legged rooster, obviously drunk. "Come on love, just 'ave a drink!"

"No," I replied firmly, thinking, _What is it with everyone and wanting me to drink? _

He faltered a bit and changed the subject. _Coward, _I thought, as he said, "That fellow over there says that you kicked 'im in the shin. Is this true?"

"Yep," I replied. "Why?"

"Wot did you kick 'im for?"

"For being utterly distasteful and odious," I replied.

"That's not very specific love," he said, wrinkling his nose and frowning.

"He made… suggestive comments," I said, still avoiding real specifics. Jack seemed content with my answer, despite the fact that it was still rather vague.

"Come on, won't you just try some rum? If you don't like it, I'll gladly drink the rest, savvy?" he said, reverting back to the original subject and falling hard onto the seat next to me.

"No, Jack. I mean, Captain," I replied rather confusedly.

"Please?" he asked, giving me this sad, pathetic-looking puppy dog eyed look.

I exhaled sharply, but reconsidered and finally said, "Fine, but if all I have is a sip, so be it. Agreed?"

"We have an accord," he said triumphantly, and then more loudly, "Barkeep! Get us some rum!"

The barkeep provided no comment, but quickly supplied us with two mugs of rum. "Go on," Jack prodded, "Drink it!"

I looked at the mug doubtfully, eyeing the amber liquid askance. I slowly lifted the mug to my lips, hoping to prolong what I considered to be my doom, and tipped the mug a tiny bit, taking a small sip of the disgusting liquid, but before I could put the mug down, Jack, grinning fiendishly, put a finger on the bottom of the mug and made it tip more, making me drink _much_ more than I had intended. It burned on the way down, and I gasped, tears coming to my eyes, my nose stinging. I wiped my eyes and scowled at Jack. "That's not fair! You cheater!" I exclaimed.

"I'm a pirate, what can I say?" he said, smiling lopsidedly.

I still had enough presence of mind to be angry, so I gave him my fiercest glower, but his smile just grew wider, and he grinned like the cat that got the cream. "Ja—Captain! I only wanted to try a sip!" I looked at the mug that had once been brimming with liquid. It was only half full. "You made me drink half of the blasted thing!"

"You don't have to call me captain all the time. Jack is fine," he said, still looking insufferably smug. The effects of the alcohol kicked in rather quickly, quickly enough in fact that it probably made me look rather pathetic.

I took in a deep, shuddery breath, trying to look around, and make sense of what as going on, but failing, for images blurred and the room seemed to spin. I tried to stand up. Not smart. I almost immediately fell over, and brought myself back up by clutching wildly at the stool and table and pulling myself up, landing heavily on the stool again. "Ow," I mumbled weakly.

"Drunk after jus' half a drink?" Jack asked incredulously, "No wonder you didn't want to drink."

"My first drink," I managed to slur out.

"Congratulations," he commended, looking down on me the way that an adult looks at a small, stubborn child.

"And it's all your fault," I grumbled with some difficulty. He gave me an odd look that I couldn't decipher. "And I would throw something—at you, but I'd probably fall—off this stool—trying…" I said, this time with _great_ difficulty, but I was proud of my mean tone of voice.

"How is it my fault?" he asked humorously, "You're the one who agreed to the proposition."

"You made me drink more than I was gonna…" I slurred, "and it is thusly your fault."

"Even when she's drunk she uses words like 'thusly,'" he said in exasperation, more to the world than to me. "Well, it's been lovely, but I have some… business to attend to, savvy?" he said suggestively, waggling his dark eyebrows and standing.

I scowled. "That's disgusting. Ha! Business… HA!" I kicked him in the shin, but much more weakly than I had kicked the other man. I giggled inanely for reasons unknown to the rational mind, feeling rather loopy and undeniably tipsy.

He just smiled crookedly in that maddening way of his, and left me to deal with my drunkenness. I felt like crying for some irrational reason, but instead just laid my head down on my arm and composed myself for much needed sleep.

**A/N: please review! or I may have to do something drastic! Like... get out my uber dangerous wet noodle!**


	5. Tension & 17th Century British Accents

**A/N:** **I'm starting to worry about this piece having an ending. Just because I haven't thought of one yet. Please don't hurt me. **

The next morning I had one of these famous hangovers everyone is always talking about—and everyone was disgustingly cheerful and far too loud for my liking.

"Good morning! Wakey, wakey!" a voice said loudly.

"Shut up…" I grumbled, still not waking up.

"That's no way to greet your captain!"

"Sorry!" I apologized hastily, shooting up off of the table. Not smart. My head ached worse than it had ever before, excruciatingly painful, increasingly uncomfortable with each pulse of the blood. "Ow-ey, ow-ey, ow-ey," I moaned plaintively, holding my head.

"Don't dilly-dally, we 'ave to get going," he scolded, looking like a parent chastising a particularly troublesome child.

I groaned, teetering to my feet. "My head hurts," I whispered, wincing from pain.

"Poor you," he said loudly.

"Why do you 'ave to talk so loud?" I asked, pleading.

"Sorry," he said unrepentantly, his voice only a tiny fraction quieter.

"Tea, tea, my kingdom for tea," I moaned, then added, "_Hot_ tea. _Caffeinated_ tea."

"I wasn't aware that you 'ad a kingdom," Jack quipped, far too cheery.

"It's figurative language for God's sake," I griped—and then realized that everything I'd said that morning I'd said with an approximately seventeenth century British accent. "Good God," I said, horrified at this insight.

"Glad to see you talking like a normal person," he said, evidently having noticed my change in accent. "Come on love, we're leaving."

"Oh no, not that blasted ship again?" I asked. The only time I had been on a ship previous to the Black Pearl was a large, safe ship in Hawaii—I had been scared out of my wits and held on to the bar like it was my life.

"You don't get seasick do you?" he said, looking as if he enjoyed the idea.

"No," I replied tartly, trying not to blush. Airily, I added with false nonchalance, "I jus' don't like boats, that's all."

"You're afraid of sailing?" he guessed again, and I glared at him, my cheeks burning at the way he seemed to be able to read my mind.

"Maybe," I replied evasively.

"Well, I've never 'ad a crewmember who's afraid of sailing," he said.

"I never confirmed that notion," I said loftily, unshed tears stinging in my eyes, my head throbbing from what I supposed was a hangover. I blinked rapidly to clear my eyes of their excess liquid, hoping he wouldn't notice my tears. _I'm stupid, _I thought, _I'm crying for no reason... _I almost continued on that vein in my head, but I realized that I had plenty of reason to cry. _I might never see my family again, _I thought shakily, new tears forming in my eyes. _Damn it, _I thought, trying to blink them away again.

He peered into my face curiously, and then sighed resignedly, digging into a pouch and holding out a relatively clean handkerchief. "Dry your eyes, I didn't mean to dredge up memories best forgotten." He suddenly looked very weary, but he gave a thin, wan smile.

"Thanks," I said, wiping my eyes with the handkerchief. "I don't mind ships that much, I'm just thinking about some other stuff."

He raised his eyebrows in inquiry, but I shook my head, not wanting to have to explain my unplanned time travel. Besides, somehow, I had the notion that he wouldn't understand my feeling of loss with regard to my family. He never really seemed to have a family.

He looked away and cleared his throat uncomfortably while I sniffled dolefully, trying to think of something other than my family. I gave him the handkerchief back with a shaky smile and then shook myself like a dog shakes off water, as if doing so would clear my mind of depressing thoughts.

"I guess you should go," I said glumly, feeling rather disheartened.

"You're part of my crew, remember? Besides, where else would you go?" he asked, looking rather baffled.

"Why does it matter?" I snapped, feeling suddenly hostile. "More importantly, why does it matter to _you_?"

"Well, technically, I hired you," he fired back, probably wondering what had brought on this onslaught.

"There was no legal, signed contract to—" I started, partly just arguing for the sake of arguing, but he cut me off.

"Ah, but you're forgetting something love." He paused for drama and I gave him an irritated look. "I'm a pirate. Legalities mean little to me."

"Good for you, but the rest of the world doesn't feel that way," I said brusquely, my accent back to normal. I stood in a sudden burst of strength and smiled tightly. "Goodbye Captain Sparrow," I said, my tone that of finality. I paused and added impishly, "It's been… interesting."

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, wrapping a callused hand around my forearm.

I shrugged, choosing to ignore his hand for the moment. "Oh, here or there. Maybe I'll go in to trade."

"Don't be silly," he chided firmly, his tone bordering on the annoyed. "You're comin' wiv me, because otherwise you might… well, I don't know, commit suicide or something."

That hit home. I scowled darkly at him, jerking my arm away from his hold. "I'm not as depressed as I look."

"Then you're still mighty depressed," he said, giving me a speculative look. He grabbed my hand and began to drag me out of the tavern. "You're part of me crew now love."

"Get off!" I exclaimed, "I'm a person with my own free will, and _I_ will choose what to do with my life, got it?" I tried to regain control of my hand with no success.

If possible his grip on my hand grew tighter, and he kept pulling me. I braced my feet on the tavern's wooden floor, using my other hand to grab the long table that I had sat at the night before. "Let go!" I shouted angrily, trying desperately to jerk out of his grasp. Unfortunately for me, I had very little upper body strength, and he had very much of it, and so my attempts to free myself were fruitless, but in such desperation, I was able to hold on for longer than I would have normally, holding on with every fiber of my being.

"That's it," he said, sounding truly pissed. It registered in my mind that perhaps I ought to be afraid, and I suddenly was, my hands instantly slippery with sweat, my heart beating insistently, rapping out a frantic rhythm as his expression darkened, a wicked smile stealing across his face.

**A/N:** **sorry everyone, I just couldn't resist the cliffhanger. (grins) I wanted to see if people were actually liking this or not, and if they are, hopefully they'll send me scathing reviews with their opinions on evil authors who use cliffies such as myself.**


	6. Over a Shoulder

**A/N: this'll be the last update for a while--i'm going on vacation for 12 days. hopefully there'll be more then. enjoy.**

He advanced towards me, and before I could react, I was up against the table in close proximity to him, and he had freed my hand, but grasped my waist, and having done so, he threw me over his shoulder, whilst I kicked as hard as possible, shouting in rage. His arm still remained around my waist, and I was facing backwards, so I couldn't see his face, but I could imagine it: I was certain that he was grinning in that crookedly smug way of his, showing numerous gold-capped teeth, and faintly, through my cries of protest, I thought I heard him whistling nonchalantly, the tune a jolly one. And just like that, me slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, screaming for all I was worth, he left the tavern, swaggering into broad daylight. In very, _very_, _painfully_ public view. I very quickly stopped screaming.

"Captain," I said in a more reasonable tone. He didn't seem to hear me. "Captain," I said a little louder. Finally, now thoroughly annoyed I cried, "_Captain!_" Still, he didn't seem to hear. Or he was ignoring me. Being cynical, I assumed the latter. I scowled, hit him and shouted, "JACK!" right next to his ear.

"Did you say something love?" he said, sounding very much like "the-cat-who-got-the-cream" again, and probably very pleased with himself.

"For the love of God, Jack!" I exclaimed loudly and then quipped tartly in a quieter tone, "I said several something's actually."

"Well, wot is it?" he asked.

"Don't play the innocent with me," I growled. "You can put me down now."

"No. I can't trust you anymore. How do I know you won't jus' run off?" he said, laughter evident in his voice.

"_You_ can't trust _me_?" I asked incredulously, using large, unnecessary hand gestures, forgetting that he couldn't possibly see them. "You're the one who's a pirate!"

"I am," he replied agreeably, "but you're well on your way to being a pirate yourself. And besides, for all I know, you used to be a thief—or worse…" He dropped his voice to dark, hushed tones. "…a politician."

"Oh stop," I said darkly and somewhat disgustedly, in very much the same way that my mother used to speak with me sometimes.

He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "And after that little episode in the tavern, I think it's in your best interest that you'll be comin' wiv me."

I was about to sling back an angry retort, but suspicion stopped me. "Why do you want me to come with you?" I asked, careful to keep my voice bland, only mild curiosity showing through.

"That's not your business young miss. And I'm the one asking questions here. _I've_ got the upper hand."

"Literally," I muttered under my breath.

He ignored me and continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Why did you fight me in the tavern if you so obviously would lose?"

"If you're going to die, die fighting," I said shortly, and then added happily and unthinkingly in a sudden burst of remembrance, "It's like that poem, 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.'" I winced. _Has that poem been written yet?_

"Eh… I've never been one for poetry," he mumbled rather falteringly.

"Oh well," I said uneasily, happy that he hadn't been an arbiter of poetry for if he had, trouble would surely have arisen.

"You weren't going to die," he said, sounding amused. _What an obscure sense of what's funny, _I thought to myself.

"Eh. Whatever," I said offhandedly—very much the classic American teen. An overdone woman, _probably a whore, _I thought meanly, gave me a strange look, and I smiled inanely in response, probably looking like I had lost my mind. After a moment of silence I said a little uneasily, "Jack?"

"Yes love?" he replied. I winced at the endearing term, not having noticed it that much before.

"Everybody's looking at us funny," I whispered, feeling like a five year old.

"People always look at me. I enjoy the attention."

"Well, aren't you conceited? This would be _negative_ attention. That's a _bad_ thing," I chided patronizingly, using the tone of voice I used on particularly incompetent or ditsy people.

"No, it isn't a singularly bad thing. It makes _you_ look bad, but I do this sort of thing quite often, so_ I_ have nothing to worry about," he rebutted easily, and now _his_ tone was rather condescending, as if he was explaining things to a simpleton, or a very young child.

I scowled and somehow he seemed to know inherently that I did so despite the fact that he couldn't see my face. He walked in silence for a while, until I ventured meekly, "This isn't very comfortable."

"Have you learned your lesson then?" he asked.

"What lesson?" I said, making no effort to conceal my confusion.

"If you have to ask, it's not worth my explaining," he replied evasively, seeming to be enjoying getting on my nerves.

I opened and closed my mouth several times, turning red from embarrassment. "I—you—I'm—" I stuttered, finally shouting, "I'm not stupid!"

"I never said you were, but on the contrary, stupidity, or more accurately ignorance, is one of your most endearing points! Especially when you look confused! That adorably infuriated, bewildered scowl comes across your face and you are the very picture of a cute little girl 'aving a fit."

This I took like a slap to the face. "I'm not a little girl! Nor am I stupid! I'll have you know that I won several awards as a highly acclaimed young scholar back home!"

"And where would, 'back home' be?"

I faltered at that and settled for a grumpy, "I can't tell you."

"Ah! I'm sure from your words and tone of voice that you have that cute 'little girl' scowl on your face right now!" he cried, his tone so jovial that he might as well have been laughing outright.

I grumbled a little bit, and then realized that my face probably harbored that same look he had described so condescendingly, so I wiped the dark scowl off of my crimson face and fell silent, saying nothing more, for he always seemed to be able to turn my own words against me.


	7. The 1st Day of My Imprisonment

**A/N: I'm back from vacation, but school may now get in the way. My apologies; this may be the last update in some time.**

"Well Cara, here you are again on me ship. I hope you enjoy your stay," he said to me, but I noticed that we were still moving.

"Surely you can trust me to not jump overboard," I said incredulously, beginning to squirm. His arm tightened around my waist in response, and the door to the captain's quarters loomed into view. _They're_ his_ quarters_, I thought, and then froze, stiff as wood in his grasp. "Oh, Hell no," I said quietly, my voice low and dangerous. It was the cold, hard, 'not taking no for an answer' voice that I only used when something dear to me was being threatened—in this case, my _virginity_, of all things.

He laughed outright at that, much to my indignant dismay. "I'll not be making any advances on you Miss Laney. No need to worry," he teased, probably smiling in that maddening way of his. "I won't make advances on you, so long as you don't make advances on me. Agreed?"

"Agreed," I said, and then snorted. "It's not like I'd make advances on you anyway, it's not like I've ev—" I stopped short and felt my face grow red.

"It's not like you've what?" he prompted, eyebrows raised.

"Nothing," I said hastily, my face fairly flaming from embarrassment, "Never mind."

"Oh come now," he cajoled, and for a moment he looked so devastatingly attractive that I had to give in.

"I'veneverevenbeenkissed," I muttered inaudibly, not stopping once for breath, fervently hoping he would drop the subject. No such luck.

"Wot was that?"

"I've never been kissed," I gritted out. "That's why I wouldn't make advances on you." Here my face turned redder than it ever had before, and I said miserably, "I don't know how to."

"Ah, this changes things Miss Laney," he said thoughtfully, a grin spreading across his face for what I surmised was not to be the last time. _Oh God, _I thought.

It was at this time that I noticed his grip around my waist growing slack, so in one rather ungainly movement, I threw my body to one side and he lost hold. I laughed triumphantly, albeit breathlessly, miraculously landing on my two feet without minimal messiness. That is, I didn't fall over; there was certainly plentiful pitching and swaying from side-to-side. I finally regained my balance to some degree and shouted triumphantly, "Freedom!" I did my victory dance, which, looking back on it some time later, really is rather dorky, just as my friends had been telling me for several years. Finally, I regained a smidgen of situational awareness, looking around. My face fell and I stopped dancing, realizing that I had walked—or danced rather—right into a waiting trap. The crew had surrounded me, with Jack at the center of the circle next to me. I instantly put my hands up like a thief caught red-handed and tried a smile.

"No hard feelings, eh?" I asked hopefully, to which there was no response. "Or not," I mumbled, crestfallen and laden with dread.

Jack gestured to his quarters with a grand sweeping motion, saying nothing, but obviously amused at my humiliating downfall.

I gathered my composure, cleared my throat daintily, and put on my best pompous, haughty, "I'm-Scarlett-O'Hara-so-damn-your-eyes" look, gazing down my nose with obvious disdain at the pirates assembled. I stepped regally towards the door, acting like a queen, but was stopped by a hand around my arm. I swiveled angrily with a sharp look, coming face-to-face with Jack. He looked at me patronizingly, slowly shaking his head, as I, in response, raised one oh-so-very aristocratic eyebrow. The circle closed in, and before I could say a word in protest, several hands had grabbed me, and I was thrown onto the bed in the room, watching the door swing shut, and hearing the lock click, signaling the first miserable day of my imprisonment.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing at all. Except for perhaps my strange mind and stranger ideas.**

**I feel I must apologize again for my updating issues. I'm sorry.**


	8. Winning

**A/N: There are some rather silly parts (dialouge) in here, so bear with me. I'm trying to get as much of this written as soon possible, now, when I have free time, so that later, when I don't have free time, I can just pop online, post it, and get back to whatever homework I'll have to do. (makes a face) stupid homework. **

**As usual, I own nothing; woe is me, and I apologize for any GUMS (grammar, usage, mechanics, spelling) errors.**

Naturally, the first thing I did was pound against the door, shouting, "Damn you! Damn you all! I will find a way out, you'll see!" After, I slumped to the ground in defeat, crying pathetically for a few minutes. Soon enough though, I had wiped my tears away, turning my mind to the task on hand. "How to get out," I muttered to myself, quietly enough that I myself could barely even hear it. I looked wildly around the room, trying to find an opening to slip through. I scrabbled over to the door on my hands and knees, but found that only the tiniest slivers of light came from under the door.

A thought hit me, and I surged up to stand so quickly that I banged my head on a desk. "Ow," I murmured absently, more in annoyance than in pain, thinking, _Lock pick! _I began a frenzied search for a hairpin, rifling through my hair to find a piece of wire to no avail. Cursing quietly, I sloppily redid my hair and turned to the captain's desk, thinking foolishly, _He's a pirate! He must have a lock pick of some sort. _I carefully opened a drawer, stealthily (or so I thought at the time) shifting papers aside. Nothing. Attentively, I replaced the papers to their original position, slowly closing the drawer and turning to the tabletop. There was a bottle of rum, some blank parchment, and a quill, along with—much to my disgust—a few old tots. Lively water, some citrus to discourage scurvy, rum, and however much sugar could be afforded—a vile concoction known as grog. I gagged, wrinkled my nose in distaste and moved on. It was useless. There was nothing, and besides, I didn't even know _how_ to pick a lock.

I kicked the door in frustration. Several times. "Good tension reliever, that," I remarked to the empty room and then sank to the floor in silence, my mind utterly blank. Being a not-so-creative type of person, I couldn't think of any way to make a miraculous escape and settled for being depressed. If it were possible, there would have been a cloud of gloom over my head as I sat wallowing in desolation. When the door finally opened some time later, I didn't bother to lift my head to see who it was, and figured it didn't matter anyway because there was nothing I could do.

The familiar, enigmatic, and utterly amused voice of Captain Jack Sparrow flooded the room. "Have you learned any lessons _now_?"

I didn't look up. "I've learned that I should just stop talking altogether, and that women really _are_ bad luck onboard, so if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go use the head and then throw myself overboard." I clamored to my feet and tried to push past him. He did not move out of the way, much to my annoyance. "Excuse me, sir," I said austerely, but politely, elbowing him out of the way and making my way over to the head where I intended to… well, take a leak.

He followed close behind me, muttering something that sounded distinctly like, "I knew she was depressed." Seeing his impending approach, I changed course, hastening to the edge of the ship, gathering my courage and recklessly flinging myself over the side, landing with a splash in the water. "I WIN!" I shouted up at him, gloating. "Ha! In your face!" I began to swim, pulling away from the side of the ship with neat, smooth strokes.

"YOU DO _NOT_ WIN!" he shouted back at me childishly. "BECAUSE _I NEVER_ _LOSE!_"

"Meh!" I taunted just as childishly, sticking out my tongue. I stayed in one position for a moment, treading water as I cried, "You're just jealous that I'm free and you're not!" I switched to back stroke so I could continue to watch his face. "Born free! As free as the wind blows!" I sang, or more like belted, and atrociously too, purposefully off pitch, knowing full well that there was no way he'd get the reference, but being far from caring. "Meh!" I teased once more, returning to the faster stroke, free stroke, as I drew nearer to land.

Soon enough, I stood on the beach of a small island, dripping but filled with gloating triumph as I eyed the Black Pearl beginning to fade into the distance. There were a good number of men still watching me from the ship, so I decided to give them something to talk about and stuck my tongue out again, along with my middle finger, waving it insolently, laughing harder than I had in a long time. I felt a twinge of regret at losing my jeans, but ignored it, considering my messy, but successful escape well worth the loss of a tank top and a pair of old jeans.

**A/N: Are you guys actually liking this? Or do you find it boring? Just because sometimes people are bored by my writing (tear tear on my part) and I wanted to know... Don't hesitate to tell me if you think it's boring. Although, if you do, a reason would be a nice thing to have.**

**-music nerd (aka Nerd's United)**


	9. Deserted Island Part 1

**A/N: A new chapter! Huzzah! School is just starting to get rolling though. _you have been warned of my less than good updating habits! _Yeah. I'll try to continue to write during study hall, but I don't have study hall every day. (Curse the rotating schedule! gah! it's evil! it's the demise of fanfiction writers everywhere! it's sacrilege!)**

**Before you read the next chapter, consider this:**

**What would _you_ do if you were all alone on a tropical island?**

**Disclaimer: i relinquish all ownership to potc, despite the fact that they stole stuff from me without knowing it. i own nothing. absolutely bloody _nothing_. grr... besides, if i owned potc, i'd be in it. but i'm not. (pouts)**

Later.

"Of course I have to pick the BLOODY UNINHABITED ISLAND TO GET STUCK ON!" I screamed sarcastically in a strangled sort of way, feeling positively violent. "Gah!" I had searched the small island the day I had arrived for signs of life, and found that there was nothing, absolutely bloody _nothing_, on the godforsaken isle that even _remotely_ smacked of civilization. "I don't even have a pistol," I said sadly, thinking aloud, something I was starting to do even more often than usual. "Not that I'd be able to use it anyway… I suppose I ought to be finding food, and branches for fire and shelter and all of that crap. But what's the point if I'm going to die anyway? More importantly, what's the point if I'm never going to see my family again?"

Knowing that I was truly alone was slightly bracing in this one moment, because within a few seconds I was bawling like a baby, sobbing uncontrollably, and glad that no one was there to mock me for it or smirk at me.

Sniffling dolefully, with salty tears still running down my newly blotchy cheeks, I began to shuffle through the fine white sand until I came upon a small copse of palm trees. I gathered up an armful of fallen palm fronds robotically, not really thinking about what I would use them for, and shook one of the trees, which yielded a coconut. For once, I was lucky, and miraculously, it didn't fall on my head. A few small fallen twigs and branches joined my small pile, along with a rock or two, and with these few goods, I trudged back to the open area of the beach.

I pushed my goods together into a pitifully small pile of my findings, hiding the oh-so-valuable coconut underneath the palm fronds just for good measure with the branches to one side. On second thought, I scooted the pile further up the slope of the beach, anticipating the impending high tide.

"I wonder where this blasted island is in relation to civilization and all that," I pondered out-loud. I looked out over the beach, and the only sight that greeted me was endless sparkling blue water, and further out the small white crests of distant waves. Resigned, I sighed, and resumed my collection of whatever it struck my fancy to pick up. I gathered some more palm fronds, for what reason I had no idea, and began to bring them back to my pile on the beach. I stopped in surprise and joy, dropping the pointless palm fronds to the ground, and my jaw dropped.

"MANGO TREE!" I shouted ecstatically, running, fairly flying across the sand to the other side of the long beach, until I reached the wonderful tree. "How did I miss this?" I asked myself, hugging the gnarled, but beautiful (to me anyway) trunk of the tree. I reached happily for a mango and plucked the fruit off, and soon I was staring at it in awe, beginning to salivate. I shook myself like a dog shakes off water, saying to myself, "Save it for later, when you'll really need it."

I hugged the largish tree once more and very somberly said, "Thank you," to it, drawing back and running back to my dropped palm fronds to hide my first precious island mango, saying to myself, "I think maybe I'm going crazy; I just thanked a mango tree." I put the two piles of 'goods' together and smiled blissfully, turning my face to the mango tree, rubbing my hands together in the anticipation of a challenge. "Perhaps I shall be able to live after all!"

**A/N: I apologize for the overly long author's note up there. I needed a vent for my hate, and that happened to be it. **

**until later,**

**music nerd**


	10. island p2: oc not marysue, trust me

**A/N: hi all! apologies for the lateness... welcome to the chappie in which we meet a new character! oc... yes... but not at all mary sue. trust me on this one. i mean come on... what kind of guy is named marysue? **

**this chapter's probably the longest yet! nice! please enjoy! or else... and please review.**

**yes, i am aware that those of you without an account can't review my story. i apologize. profusely. i used to be one of you. this isn't my account only though; i share it with a friend, so i feel i must respect her wish to limit the anonymous reviewers. my apologies. please understand, it's not my choice---not my email. i'm sorry. **

I was not quite so confident later, as the liquid golden sunlight began to kiss the tops of the trees, sending brilliant streams of color out across the horizon, coloring the ocean in pinks, purples, and oranges—a breathtaking Caribbean sunset. If I had been on a cruise ship, I would have stopped to view the lovely scene (and probably would have commented cynically on how pollution affected sunsets), but as it was, I sat unhappily, frustrated beyond belief on a large deserted beach, surrounded by palm fronds, frantically trying to light a fire with two rocks before the light was completely gone. Prior, I had tried two sticks with less luck, for the wood was wet from what I assumed to be rain. Or a hurricane. A hurricane that may come back for a visit… I decided not to think about that.

"Why didn't I pay attention when we went camping in girl scouts?" I asked myself, and then rolled my eyes at my folly. "Not that we learned this anyway." I took on a mocking tone. "Children should never play with fire!" I rolled my eyes again and snorted rudely, but no one was around to chastise me. One of the only upsides of being stuck on an uninhabited island. I cast a worried glance towards the setting sun, whose light was fading fast, its lingering warmth still present on the sand—but not for long I knew, which urged me again into a flurry of frenzied movement. "Work, damn it!" I cried in despair. "Make a spark! You're supposed to! That's what they told me in science class in first grade!"

I calmed myself, still violently banging the two rocks together with little success. "Dear God," I began, my voice prim and proper, "Please, if you would be so kind as to help me make a spark, I would be very, _very_ grateful." Still bloody nothing. "God must be busy," I commented dryly, grabbing the sticks instead and rubbing them together at an almost alarming rate of speed.

Out of nowhere it seemed, a small wisp of smoke drifted up from the sticks, and I smiled in openmouthed elation, rubbing all the quicker. It suddenly lit, and just in time too, because my arms were about to fall off, so I cried out happily and said, "Finally!" as a twig and then some palm fronds lit on fire. "So there _is_ a God!" I cried laughingly.

I moved the other palm fronds so they would not catch on fire in a circle around me, laughing a little shakily at the thought of being surrounded by fire, and tended the flames until I had a good roaring blaze, at which point I deemed it a large enough fire to feed itself for a while, scrambling off to find some larger branches to fuel my growing fire.

I smiled and whistled a jovial tune as I gathered the wood, happy at least for the moment. I gathered the wood up in my arms as if it were a baby instead of logs that would probably give me splinters later, lumbering back to my fire on the beach as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. I set down the wood and then frowned at it as if it was its fault the light had gone, thinking worriedly out loud, "I hope that'll be enough wood to feed the fire all night."

"Should be," someone replied mildly from behind me.

"Who the Hell!" I snapped, whirling around to come face to face—or face to chest rather considering the height difference—with a tall, graceful looking man who stood with the relaxed ease of an experienced fighter, and had a complacent, albeit slightly amused expression on his face. His hair was blonde, pulled back into a ponytail, and he had light green eyes that seemed to change shades of green in the flickering firelight.

"Nice to meet you too," he replied, as if I hadn't just cursed loudly, "My name is Dorian Faber. And you are?"

"Uhh…" I stalled, trying to remember my fake name, "Cara Laney."

"Would you mind terribly if I warmed myself by your fire, Miss Laney?" he asked politely.

I just stared at him for a few seconds, trying not to drool. Normally, I didn't go for blonde guys, but this man had a wonderful elegance to him that made him all too attractive. A few more moments of awkward silence in which I goggled him finally led to him quizzically raising one eyebrow at me. I shook myself, stopped staring and answered hastily, "I wouldn't mind at all."

I cleared my throat uncomfortably and sat down, gesturing that he do the same, my "overly zealous Asian hostess" gene beginning to kick into gear. I scrabbled through my piles of palm fronds and produced the mango. "Here, if you have a knife we can have some mango… if not then I'm sure we can manage something."

He smiled and drew out a small knife that actually looked cleaner than anything I'd seen for my entire trip in the 17th century. I looked in chagrin at my rather filthy hands, wiped them unsuccessfully on my breeches and then took the knife from his outstretched hand. "So… Mr. Faber… uhh… what brings _you_ to an uninhabited island in the middle of nowhere?" I said with determined cheerfulness, hoping that my maladroit manner would go unnoticed as I ineffectually tried to cut the mango, squinting at it in the dim light of the fire.

"Here, let me cut the mango," he said kindly, noticing my troubles. I blushed, but handed his knife and my mango over to him. He very carefully cut the mango into several slices and gave me half of them, popping one slice in his one mouth and looking thoughtful whilst he chewed. _I didn't think it was possible to look thoughtful while your chewing, or at least _I_ never managed to do it,_ I thought, this time to myself instead of aloud as I had been thinking for the past day.

He swallowed the slice and then said, "Truth be told, I'm not quite sure how I arrived here. One minute, I'm locked up in the brig of an enemy ship, and the next, I've been knocked out and when I wake up I'm here."

"What enemy ship?" I asked him, my head tilted curiously to one side.

"The Black Pearl," he replied, his tone of voice still mild and placid. Imagine his alarm when he hears me beginning to choke on my mango.

Coughing and spluttering, I finally managed to ask incredulously, "The Black Pearl?" still half choking on mango. I finally was able to stop choking, much to Dorian's and my relief. "The one captained by Jack Sparrow?"

He looked at me oddly, and now _his_ head was tilted to one side. "Do you know of it?"

"I was just on it earlier today!" I cried. "Curse that man!" I stood up abruptly, mango slices still in hand and began to pace back and forth, feeling positively violent. I stopped in mid-stride, my face crestfallen, I'm sure. "I can't live here for the rest of my life!" I wailed. I resumed my pacing. "If only we had a ship… if we just had a ship…" I said, and then trailed off into a bunch of incoherent mutterings.

Finally, I exhaled sharply in exasperation and sat back down, taking a small bite of mango. "Any ideas?" I asked him.

He shrugged, and closed his eyes tight for a moment—but soon they opened again, and his green eyes were dark as he replied, "I can't think of anything… except maybe building a very small boat to go scouting for other islands…" He shook his head. "I don't know."

I sighed and smiled wanly, saying, "Well, enough of this tiresome thinking. We can get back to it in the morning. For now, we'd better rest I think."

He nodded, his mind obviously elsewhere, lying down some distance from the fire, and then instantly falling asleep.

As for me, my mind was restless, and so there I sat, gazing absently at the fire as my thoughts turned to plans of escape from the island. Every so often I would place another branch on the fire; there was no way I was going to let the fire go out as we slept. Who knows what could be out there. I sighed, preparing myself for a long, sleepless night and sending a quick prayer to God, then returning my gaze to the fire. I sat there in the dark, brooding until dawn, not daring to nod off, my gaze trained on the fire the whole time.


	11. plantains

**a/n: the voice changes near the end. enjoy!**

**disclaimer: i own nothing. mmmkay?**

Belatedly, I realized that staying up all night doesn't exactly help a person in the looks department, but I brushed it aside as he awoke and busied myself with trying to open a coconut. Key word: 'trying.' After trying for a rather too long span of time, I stopped thinking about it, and banged the coconut thoughtlessly on a rock, inanely denting it as I stared off into the distance at nothing in particular, zoning out.

Soon enough the palm of a callused hand was waving in my face, and I jerked out of my semi-consciousness and shouted, "I didn't take the cookie, I swear!" I looked strangely in befuddlement at the coconut that lay in my hand, trying to remember how it got there. I looked up to see Dorian standing several feet away, rubbing his eyes and stretching, which just so happened to show off his muscles. _Oh God. _

He smiled warmly, and sat down across from me, saying almost apologetically, "I knew you'd come back to Earth eventually. Hope you don't mind that I used my hand to hasten the trip."

I smiled back. "No problem. May I use your knife?" He gave me a half-frown, as if he thought I might do something questionable with it, but handed it over anyway. I set the coconut firmly between my sandy feet, and drove the tip of the knife into one of the three darkish indentations on the end. There was soon a small hole, and I smiled triumphantly, taking a sip and then doing the same to the other two indentations. _Ah, the wonders of the internet, _I thought to myself, nearly fainting deliriously in delight as I sipped the coconut's juice once more, reveling in the feel of liquid in my mouth that wasn't just my own spit. I held out the coconut to him, deciding offhandedly not to worry about the minor issue of how I ended up with a coconut in my hand in the first place. "Coconut?" I asked hopefully.

He nodded. "Thanks."

After giving him the coconut I leaned against a pile of branches nonchalantly and said, "Well, I suppose we shall get back to the tricky business of escaping now, hmm?" I watched him sip at the coconut, feigning unconcern, but waiting earnestly for his reaction.

"Actually, I was thinking of finding a fresh water source," he replied, passing the now rather light coconut back to me.

"Can I finish this?" I asked him, hoping the answer would be yes, after all, I was the one who knew how to open the coconut anyway.

"Certainly," he replied easily, gesturing with his hands.

I nodded as a reply and drained it in one go, smiling contentedly in the direction of the rising sun—but a minute later, I was scowling again, this time for lack of a cloth to contain the coconut in. Finally, in my frustration, I ripped off one of my sleeves, drawing a short gasp from Dorian, who covered it up with a cough a little too late. Hah! I simpered at him, and considered giving a saucy wink, but then denied myself the pleasure.

I wrapped the coconut in my sleeve, tightly, so none of the coconut's coarse exterior showed, and had at it with the hilt of the knife until I was satisfied that it was thoroughly pulverized. I smiled a little belligerently. "Now, _that's_ what I call a good tension reliever."

The sweet, white meat of the coconut clung to the shell, so I carefully peeled it away with Dorian's trusty once-clean dagger, slowly, so that I'd have an intact shell to hold the coconut meat in. I nearly fainted again just from the smell of the coconut in the air, and shivered deliciously before resuming my tedious job. Soon enough, the shell was cleaned of its meat, and I had a middle-sized pile of the fragrant coconut inside the shell. "Coconut?" I said again.

He stared at me for a moment, his gaze lingering on my now exposed arm (which really wasn't all that much to look at) and then looked away and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I… uh…"

"Cat got your tongue?" I asked delightedly, my wicked smile bordering on the edge of a smirk.

"Well… I…"

I didn't let him say anything, butting in with, "Oh, the shirt. Not to worry. A little sun won't hurt my arm." The smile went just below the surface of my emotions as I feigned thoughtfulness. "Ya' know… I'm thinking the sleeves get in the way anyhow." In a very short moment, I had unceremoniously ripped off the other sleeve and was looking down at my makeshift "tank-top." I leaned forward in false confidentiality, nodding and murmuring in hushed tones, "Sleeveless shirts—they're gonna be big."

He gaped like a fish for the barest of moments, and then said slowly, as if he were getting used to the idea, "So is that more comfortable then?"

"Indeed," I replied solemnly.

"And does it give a freer range of motion?" he asked.

"Quite so," I answered, my voice prim.

"Interesting…" he said pensively. "Interesting…" I raised an eyebrow quizzically, but he didn't take notice and was muttering something incoherently to himself. I cleared my throat. Still no response. Finally, I just rolled my eyes, and stood, my bones cracking in protest, giving me cause to wonder if time travel affected age. I made my way to the mango tree, wanting to scout out other forms of edible vegetation, and hopefully, a clean, fresh water source, if it wasn't too much to ask from God. I didn't particularly revel in the idea of drinking only coconut juice in place of water.

I looked back at Dorian and couldn't resist the urge to roll my eyes again. He was still muttering to himself, only now he was making drawings in the sand. I pushed Dorian from my mind, and having arrived at the mango tree, I bowed to it, Geisha style, kneeling on the sand with my hands placed delicately in front of me, before standing and taking several just ripe mangoes from the tree's branches. I bowed again. Insanity runs in my family, give me a break.

Naturally, since I was on a deserted island with nary a baked good in sight, or even anything that faintly smacked of refined, sweetened victuals, I began to crave chocolate cake. "Sometimes life just sucks," I muttered to myself, trying not to think about cake, but salivating over the image in my mind's eye anyhow. I began to move forward through the rather sparse foliage, noting anything that I surmised was edible and watching out for poison ivy from habit. Good ole' girl scouts—maybe they _did_ teach me something.

I closed my eyes, and listened hard for some sort of babbling brook, mangos gathered in one arm. Hearing nothing, I shrugged and left it at that, skirting a patch of poisonous-looking mushrooms and coming to rest in front of a tree that had hanging from it, much to my surprise, bananas. Or what looked like bananas. I took one down from the tree (after much ineffectual pulling), and cautiously opened it. It did not smell like a banana; truth be told, it didn't smell like anything at all. Mystified, I poked its flesh until finally having one of those "Oh yeah, that," moments in the form of, "Oh my God, it's a plantain! Since when did plantains grow in the Caribbean?"

I skipped, yes, _skipped_, back to Dorian, plantain in hand, and said happily to him, "Look! It's a plantain!"

He looked up, apparently startled, and then shook himself. "A what?"

"A plantain, silly!" He looked blankly at me, so I rolled my eyes, cleared my throat to make it more official sounding, and continued, reciting in a nasal voice, "The plantain is part of the Plantago family. Plantains are hard, starchy, and used for cooking, as contrasted with their soft, sweet cousin, the banana. Plantains are a staple food in the tropical regions of the world, treated in much the same way as potatoes and with a similar neutral flavor and texture when unripe. The seeds of some are used medicinally. Plantains tend to be firmer and lower in sugar content than bananas and are commonly used when green or underripe. They _must_ _be_ cooked. Or else. It is also known as Ribwort in western medicine." I paused. "There will be a quiz on Friday, and the study guide is due tomorrow. I mean… uhh… scratch that last part… Any questions?"

"Only one. How did you know all of that?" he asked, looking at me oddly, as if I had just sprouted an extra head or some such thing.

I just barely stopped myself from saying, _Internet,_ and replied, feigning nonchalance, "Research."

He looked unsatisfied, but left it at that and looked down at his sand drawings again, while I tried to figure out what exactly it was supposed to be. "Is this like the ink blot test? Just cuz' I see a cake in that blob," I commented matter-of-factly.

Now he looked at me like I was _really_ off my rocker. Like, completely crazy. Like, 'needs to take medicine' crazy. By that time, I was used to that sort of look—I figure it's pretty much true anyhow. "I guess not then," I said with determined cheerfulness, slicing a mango with Dorian's now dirty knife. No doubt looking ungraceful, since I was chewing, I squinted once more at the 'sand blot' as I had deemed it. I shook my head, staring intently at it. _Still looks like cake! _I thought, and just barely stopped myself from groaning. I needed my cake fix, _real_ bad. I finished my mango, wiped the juice on my breeches and sat back, looking at Dorian. "I give up. What _is_ that thing?"

"Do you not see it? It is a more refined version of your modified shirt! I think I shall call it… a tank top!" he said happily, grinning broadly.

My jaw dropped and I gaped at him, most likely looking very much like a fish. Most unflattering. _This would be a good time for a google search... _I thought."So…" I cleared my throat uncomfortably, and laced and unlaced my hands several times in my lap. "Tank top…" I stared down at my hands. "Umm…. uhh…" I looked to the side, feeling awkward. "I'm gonna make some plantains…" I turned to the still blazing fire and pondered how to cook plantains without a pan. Being my uncreative self, I sat there for a good long time, just blankly staring at the fire… kind of like a Mary-Sue. Finally, I snapped out of it, and decided I would try to cook using a rock. Hopefully, a large, flat one. I prayed fervently to God that nothing would blow up, like on Mythbusters; after all, they've blown up some pretty strange things, and as much as it looks cool on T.V., I correctly assumed that it was not the brightest idea at the time.


	12. plantains2 and INSANITY

**disclaimer: no. i dont own any of this. STOP MAKING ME FEEL BAD ABOUT MYSELF! (cries)**

**A/N: i am back with INSANITY! fun. **

**who watches mythbusters? come on folks, own up; it's an awesome show. **

**okay, this chappie is like, uber crazy and random. I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS!**

**hopefully we'll be back to Jack soon enough. just wait. it won't take long. because i FREAKIN' LOVE THAT GUY! (swoon) if i dont get my 'writing about jack' fix, then i explode. so dont worry. my choices are: **

**a)include jack again**

**b)explode**

**and as much as explosions are cool, i think i'd rather write about jack. ta!**

After several tedious hours of scraping a rock with water and sand, I had finally made a large, smooth slab of rock. The slab was held up over the fire with four stone legs, a table of sorts, and I had cleaned the slab (however unsuccessfully) and was now waiting for it to heat up while contemplating the matter of cooking oil. I knew there had to be some way to grease my slab, but having not taken a course in survival tactics, I couldn't help but wish that a can of "Pam" cooking spray would fall from the sky like some sort of obscure gift from God. Of course, even if it had fallen from the sky, it probably would have hit my head and knocked me out, so I suppose it was for the better that it didn't.

Finally, I just decided to go back to the place where I had found the plantains and pick a few more—after all, a single plantain is not much of a meal, especially not for two. When I reached it, I had this niggling sensation at the back of my mind that insisted that I was forgetting something. I ignored it. That voice in the back of my head always seemed to get me in trouble. For a good ten minutes I stared dumbly at the plantain tree until something clicked in my mind. _Can't you cook in a banana leaf? _Feeling brilliant, I plucked several of the leaves, along with some of the actual produce, off of the tree and headed back to the beach.

The rock was good and hot by now, so I cracked open another coconut (rather, I bored a few holes in it) and used the juice to "clean" the leaves and "marinate" the peeled plantains. "I hope this works," I said grimly to myself, wrapping the plantains in the leaves and placing the bundle on the rock. I stepped back, anticipating explosion, pulling Dorian with me. Standing several yards away, we watched the spectacle, and I felt the blood pumping harder in my veins, a flush rising to my cheeks. _Oh my God, it's like blood lust! _I thought to myself. _I just can't help but want it to explode!_

At this point I was trembling with excitement, inadvertently leaning closer to the rock, my eyes glued to the packet of plantain. I was waiting for a "KABOOM" but all I got was a measly little "pop."

I walked forward, my face sour, saying irritably, "Drat!" Slowly, I removed the package from the rock's hot surface and juggling it from side to side, I began to walk towards the ocean. "Hot! Hothothothothot!" I plunged the packet into the water for a second and then pulled it out. "It needed salt," I said matter-of-factly to myself, and then burst into uncontrollable giggles for reasons unknown to humankind. Trotting back to the fire, I opened the packet and tasted the plantain/coconut/ocean water combo, still giggling slightly. I shrugged. "Not half bad." I ignored the fact that Dorian ogled me as if he had just realized my blatant insanity and took another bite of the bland plantain mixture. I gave him a loopy smile, feeling all too giddy for my own good. "Plantain?"

He blinked a couple of times, looking a bit like a deer, and then muttered something that sounded remarkably like, "Crazy wench," walking off into the trees and out of sight.

I shrugged, eating some more and then grinning. _So what if he's hot? He's not crazy enough for me. _I rubbed my hands together, smiling wickedly and trying to laugh evilly. It sounded rather odd, and not quite right, but at that point I was far past caring, feeling as if I was drunk, or possibly high on something. I knew that wasn't possible; the last time I had alcohol was on Tortuga—and it seemed that that instance had been ages ago. So I just shrugged and fed off of my hyper tendency, making a sand angel and laughing inanely, smiling into the Caribbean sun.


	13. agadoo

**A/N: im back again! this chapter probably has a lot of GUMS errors, but i really dont care. enjoy!**

Soon enough it was afternoon, making me wonder where the time had gone. I answered my own question out-loud, since I was alone again. "Down the drain, that's where it went." I had eaten enough of the plantain gruel-like concoction to start getting desperate to escape the island. And my cake craving was back, full force. I groaned. I was ready for civilization. More than ready. In fact, if Jack's ship had appeared at that moment, then I would have gladly jumped back on, and if anyone tried to throw me off I would have killed them, or clung in a most unseemly fashion to the mainmast or some such thing. However, this wonderful opportunity to embarrass myself did not present itself. A pity.

Despite my growing dislike of the plantain gruel, I continued to eat it, afraid of turning anorexic. Of course, I would have had a reason to be anorexic, as the food was less than tasty (understatement of the day), but I still didn't particularly want to starve to death. But I _did_ want to lose weight. After contemplating taking a run for a rather long time, I finally moved my lazy self and began to jog around the island, a sour expression on my face, no doubt.

As I jogged, I began to contemplate the rather important matter of fresh water. I could only last on coconut juice for so long—and if I continued jogging every day, that time would probably be lessened. I stopped jogging. "The perfect excuse," I said smugly to myself. "I always did hate gym class."

And so, I set forth with all haste into the not-so-jungly-jungle to look again for a fresh water source. I gathered a few mangos on the way, performing my bowing ritual to the mango tree. After a thorough search for water, much cursing, bug-bites and a bad case of chronic clumsiness, I gave up, deciding that my only option from there on was to live on coconut juice as long as possible, and escape the island at the first chance that I got. I felt better having a plan, however vague that plan was, and went to the palm tree grove to begin my hording.

Seeing as I was alone, I was suddenly struck with the burning desire to dance, of all things (I'm a terrible dancer), and the first tune that came to my crazy head was Agadoo. I placed the mangos on the sand and put my hands up in the air, beginning to sway. "A-a-a-a-ga-a-a-a-doo doo doo, push pineapple, shake the tree! Agadoo, doo, doo! Push pineapple, grind coffee, to the left, to the right, jump up and down and to the knees, come and dance every night, to the hula melody!" I belted, laughing insanely for what I surmised was not to be the last time. I shook several coconut trees and gathered the fallen coconuts in my arms, scooping up a few palm fronds along the way. The sunlight was beginning to fade, lingeringly beautiful asi watched it begin its progress down in gorgeous hues. I sighed. "I'd better head back to the fire." Soon I was back at my piles and fire at the beach, burning some more palm fronds and hiding the coconuts and mangos beneath the rest. It was only after that I noticed Dorian.

"Oh, hi! How've ya' been? Want some plantain gruel? I can't say that it tastes good, but it certainly is filling!" I said cheerfully, smiling like a flight attendant on drugs.

He looked dubiously at me for a moment, and then shrugged, smiling a little uneasily and saying, "Sure."

"Let me heat it up first. Cold gruel is _nasty_ stuff," I said, repulsed, shuddering at the thought. After I had heated it, I handed it over and stared dumbly at the fire for a few minutes, ignoring Dorian's barely covered choking sounds. I glanced briefly over at him.

He smiled weakly. "It's not all that bad… It's just a little… bland… and gloppy…"

"Wonderful! Just how I like it. I'm going to add mango to mine." I took out the knife and swiftly cut up a mango. If I didn't learn anything else from my trip to the seventeenth century, at least I'd have learned to cut a mango. I placed half of the mango into his gruel. "Trust me on this one. It tastes _much_ better."

He looked at the gruel askance, and the shrugged it off, digging in. "True. It _is_ better with mango."

"I'm a foodie, I would know," I gibed without thinking.

"A what?"

"Nothing," I said hastily. Darkness fell, and my mouth suddenly opened wide in a jaw-cracking yawn. "I'm gonna sleep," I said decisively, curling up some distance from the fire, but within the circle of its heat and light, and falling asleep only moments after, not even bothering to see what Dorian would do. I trusted him.

**Bonus material:**

**Do the "Agadoo"!**

**lyrics on one side, matching dance step on the other.**

**a-a-ga-a-doo doo, doo: just sway. enthusiastically. that's what i do.**

**push pineapple: push outwards with hands; tips of fingers up, about chest height.**

**shake the tree: pantomime shaking a tree. or actually do shake a tree if there happens to be a palm tree nearby. if you get hit in the head with a coconut, im not liable for fragulent charges. YOU CAN'T SUE ME!**

**agadoo, doo, doo: sway again, hands way up in the air!**

**push pineapple: see above**

**grind coffee: pantomime turning a handle (grind coffee)**

**to the left, to the right: exactly what it sounds like, ya sod.**

**jump up and down: how hard is this to understand, folks?**

**and to the knees: put your hands on your knees (that's what i do anyway)**

**come and dance every night to the hula melody: sway. free dance. just adlib it folks; this is easy!**

**A/N: I'm a great dance instructor, right? no, don't answer that. that's all! tata!**


	14. some notsowelcome surprises

**A/N: dude! im back already! nobody was expectng _that_! this chapter was inspired by the reviewer: Almenel-Miriel**

**so thanks to them for my new plot twist! while i'm mentioning reviewers, i just want to say that it's reviews that keep me into fanfiction. **

**thanks to:**

**ChaosLightning13, ta1nt3d1uv, caripsle, Noyesgirl, Your Nightwish, keliz2005, cHoCoLaTe-RuM, Lady LolaBert, Stormwake, pirateobsessed, KayleeG, Almenel-Miriel, ButWhyIsAllTheRUMGone**

**thanks! if i missed you or misspelled something, im really sorry! dont hurt me!**

Slowly, my eyes began to flutter open, and at first I thought that perhaps I had gone blind somehow, as all I could see around me was darkness, and my other senses seemed somehow heightened, but soon the sensation disappeared as my eyes adjusted to the dark, and I realized that though my nose was reeling from a stench, it was not because my nose had become any keener—the smells had just grown worse. The first phrase that came to mind was _nauseating stench,_ and the second was, _bilge. _I smiled slightly at my foolishness through the fog of sleep that still enveloped my mind—since when was there bilge on an island?

Suddenly, I froze, and looked around to get my bearings. It was dank, dingy, and putrid-smelling, and there was very little light. I faced bars. I closed my eyes very tightly for a few seconds and then opened them again, my face blank. "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," I murmured inaudibly to myself. There were several other bedraggled-looking prisoners at my left and right in what I realized were other cells. I was caged. I had been betrayed. But to whom? Now thoroughly awake, I looked up to see a very smug Dorian just outside the presumably locked door of my cell. He smirked at me, but I stared back, not quite glaring yet, feeling my hands clench into fists. I could feel the hatred seeping into my mental image of him, and the blood was coursing violently in my veins. So in a matter of seconds, I was fairly pumped up, thinking _extremely_ vicious thoughts. _Blood lust,_ I thought grimly, but with some sense of obscure triumph. At that moment, the only thing in the world that I wanted was to draw blood, and I just barely kept myself from getting up right then and there and trying to bite him through the bars.

"Ah, Miss Laney, you're awake," he said with false civility, a slight smile just below the surface of his facial expression.

"Damn you, you bastard!" I snarled viciously, not bothering to watch my language anymore.

"Now, now, Miss Laney. There's no need for such animosity," he replied patronizingly, completely placid.

"Oh, shut your trap! What the Hell is going on?" I snapped, at the end of my rope.

"You've made me a considerable sum, Miss Laney, and I thank you for it," was all that he said, but it set me off like a volcano.

"What the Hell? YOU _SOLD_ ME? **_WHAT MADE YOU THINK YOU HAD THE RIGHT TO DO THAT!_**" I demanded, my voice growing in volume, as I bolted up to stand.

He smirked, eyes slack-lidded as if he had better things to do. "I'm sure you'll make a wonderful slave. I do so hope you understand. The only way for me to escape the island was to sell you to the fine owners of this ship, so I did," he said calmly, smiling infuriatingly.

"You _slime_," I hissed, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, "You malignant, repugnant, overbearing _slime_."

"Words will get you nowhere Miss Laney. Save your breath," he said, completely calm.

Now the blood was really up in my veins, more so than it had ever been before; every muscle in my body was tense like a drawn bow, ready to spring at any moment. I restrained myself, saying icily with pseudo-nonchalance, "So, who owns this ship anyway?"

"The East India Trading Company," he replied, cool as a cucumber.

I raised one eyebrow in my most aristocratic way, keeping my temper down. I laughed slightly with a small sigh. "They always _were_ too enthusiastic about the slave trade. A pity. They could have been making twice as much with goods on the bottom of the sea."

"You're talking nonsense," he retorted, but looked slightly unsure.

I gave a frosty, knowing smile. "Oh, am I? I suppose you do not realize the abundance of natural minerals on the ocean floor? A pity," I drawled.

He glared, eyes narrowed to slits, face contorted with malice, and without another word, he strode out of the brig, his boots clicking the whole way. I leaned back and heaved a weighted sigh. Sitting cross-legged, I rested my elbows on my legs, my head in my hands, suddenly weary of the world, feeling a great weight on my shoulders.

"Miss Laney, is it?" I heard someone ask.

"Why does it matter?" I asked, lifting my head to be greeted with the welcome sight of a familiar face. "Mr. Gibbs?" I asked incredulously, gaping in openmouthed surprise.

"Aye," he replied solemnly from the adjacent cell.

"How did _you_ get landed in here?" I asked, disbelief shown clearly on my face, no doubt.

"Bad luck," he said ruefully, shaking his head with a very serious expression on his face weather-chapped face.

"Ah. Of course," I commented dryly. He missed the sarcasm. "D'you think Jack'll come to rescue you? After all, he does hate the East India Trading Company…" I said, trailing off rather pathetically.

"One can only hope," he replied.

"How cryptic of you," I said wryly, "Does that basically mean no?"

"Pretty much."

"I love your optimism!" I exclaimed, and he raised a quizzical eyebrow in reply. I shrugged. "I don't suppose being a slave is very much fun," I commented conversationally.

He gave me an skeptical look that just about said, 'you stupid or something?'

I laughed. "Okay, so that was the understatement of the year. Anyway, got a bit of wire?"

"No. What for?"

"I coulda jimmied it," I said, smiling briefly in reminiscence.

"Jimmied what?" he asked, looking dubiously at me.

"The lock," I replied in hushed tones, and then got louder as I rolled my eyes a little and said, "Duh."

He did not reply, but instead looked at me funny, like I was a first class citizen of Mars.

"You're not just gonna let them sell you, right?" I asked worriedly, peering into his face for some sort of reaction. His face stayed annoyingly blank.

"I don't know."

"Come on! Dude, slavery is seriously un-fun!" I exclaimed, adding as an afterthought, "And yes, I know that 'un-fun' isn't a word."

He gave a slight smile, but it soon faded, and his face sagged in desolation. "What would we do? At this point, I figure there's nothing we _can_ do."

"We have plenty to do!" I cried. "We can show that our spirits remain unbroken, we can ignore them, we can meditate, we can take a vow of silence—we have tons of stuff we can do."

"But none of those things relate to our escape."

"Do they not? Whoops. Well, I for one am going to meditate to clear my mind so that I may be able to think simply, without bias." I closed my eyes and sat in position, cross-legged. "Ommm…. Ommmm…." I sneezed, shook myself, and started up again. "Ommm… Ommmm…. Ommm…"

"Miss Laney?" a new voice asked, sounding timid, almost sheepish.

I cracked one eye open and glared irascibly at the speaker, a young man who I assumed was a guard of some sort, shuffling from foot-to-foot nervously outside of my door. "What? Please be quick, I'm trying to meditate here!" My other eye opened and the eyebrows went up, arching expectantly.

"I have some tea for you miss…" He held out a tin cup, a hopeful smile just barely gracing his features.

"Ah! Finally! I've craved tea all week! Thank you!" The water was a tepid lukewarm at best, but at that point, I didn't care. Tea! _Now if only I could get my hands on a piece of cake... _I decided not to push my luck. "Thank you," I said again, smiling. The tea was not very well brewed, being a rather light tinge of brown, but it was better than anything I had sampled on the deserted island by far. "If only it was green tea…" I sighed. "Oh well. One can't have everything." And so I savored the drink, wrapping my hands around the mug and leaning against the wall, listening to the sound of the ocean, finally allowing myself to be lulled into sleep.

**A/N: i wasn't planning of making anything of the last line of the last chapter, "I trusted him." but when Almenel-Miriel brought up the whole idea for a good chance to have a plot twist, i thought that was a great idea. yay! please review specifically on: interest level, writing style, word choice, and flow. or you could just pop off something along the lines of 'hi' but if the spirit moves you to go into specifics... (hopeful smile) **

**that's all for now. bye.**


	15. bananashaped

**A/N: okay everyone. this is really cliched and painfully mary-sue-ish. im so sorry! this chapter is so unoriginal. (tear tear) Well, anyway, please enjoy, please review!**

I awoke blearily to the annoying sound of a light tapping on the slightly rusty bars of my cell. Stretching, I yawned, a sleepy half-smile on my face, almost forgetting for a moment that I was locked up in a prison and being shipped off to wherever the biggest slave trade was. My throat felt sore and raw, and I moaned dolefully a little, hearing the rumble of the common cold in my throat. I wouldn't be able to sing for days. I came to awareness with a sour look on my face, and when I saw who stood outside of my cell, the look turned sourer. "There something you want, Dorian?" I asked rather rudely, coughing a little.

"I only came to inquire of your health milady," he replied, and his eyes danced mockingly. "I trust you slept well?"

"As well as can be expected, considering that I'm on the _cold_ _hard dirty_ floor of a _rank_ _smelly vile_ brig," I answered tartly, with a sardonic smile.

"Is something the matter Miss Laney?" he asked, looking at me patronizingly. I always seemed to get into situations where chauvinistic men looked down at me as if I were a small, stubborn, and perhaps particularly thick child.

"Oh no, nothing's wrong. I'm only about to be shipped off to God knows where, become somebody's slave, never see my family again, get my period, and generally be abused," I ranted sarcastically, summing up my supposed future. "Nothing's wrong. Not to mention the fact that I've been betrayed by someone that I trusted. Nope. _Nothing_ _wrong_ _whatsoever_. Everything is just peachy," I said, smiling bitterly. Then my look became a solemn one, and I held one rather dirty pointer finger up, shaking it in his direction. "Just wait though. Things may be peachy now, but soon enough they'll turn all banana-shaped." I winced, shaking my head. "Not pretty. Mark my words. Someday, everything's gonna go all banana-like, and _then_ I'll be in for it."

He looked at me for about fifteen whole minutes, his eyes glued incredulously to my face as if he didn't believe I'd just said that. He was probably wondering when my mouth would start to foam, or when I would start pawing at the ground, eyes rolling practically out of my head. None of that happened though, because I was one of those "crazy by choice" people, as supposed to "I have no mind, so I am therefore a lunatic." In short, I liked messing with people. I simpered mockingly at him, winking, and when his eyebrows lifted skeptically, I just shrugged.

"No, really. How are you?" he asked, looking uncomfortably.

"Decidedly banana-y," I answered ambiguously. "Not to mention the fact that I'm PMS-ing and I have a cold. So you might want to sod off."

"You're what?" he queried suspiciously, looking confused.

"Nothing," I replied innocuously.

He shuffled a bit, looking embarrassed. "I brought you some tea," he finally blurted out.

"Aha! So, you feel bad about betraying me? Poor you. Sorry, but I'm not that easy to buy off. I hold grudges forever," I informed him, feeling triumphant. "I _will_ take that tea though." Wordlessly, he handed it over, his expression one of some remorse.

"You understand though, right?" he asked, lacing and unlacing his hands nervously.

My mouth dropped open in shock and some revulsion. "Of course not, you scumbag!" I berated loudly, horrified. "I never would have done that to _you!_ _I would have died first!_" He looked properly ashamed, but the pitiful image did nothing when pitted against my unnervingly stolid expression. "I hope God forgives you," I said coldly, "Just because_ I_ never will." The chorus of memories of friends inside my head said things like, _Ooh, that's harsh, _and, _You tell 'im girlfriend._ As clichéd as it may sound, tears came to my eyes just remembering the friends I once had.

"I'm… sorry?" he said hopefully.

I blinked the tears away quickly, and gave him a frosty, aloof stare by way of reply, then turning away, my back to him, the silence hanging precariously in the air. The silence was broken as he sighed, and I could hear the fading echo of his boots on the stone floor as I wished desperately that I could go home. _Perhaps I should just die, _I thought. _See what the after-life's like._

"Miss Laney?" I heard Gibbs ask, disturbing my solemnly depressing thoughts.

"Aye," I acknowledged, turning, and surprisingly enough, the seafaring language slipped easily off my tongue.

"I'm glad I'm not on your bad side."

I raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean? I'm not all that intimidating, being short and ignorant as I am."

"Ye'd be surprised what words can do," he replied, half smiling.

_How cryptic of you,_ I thought, but then something else occurred to me. "Whatever happened to the saying?" I asked. I took on a mocking manner, reciting childishly, "'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.' I mean, I've always thought it was rubbish, but hey. Some people do seem to like it," I reasoned, trying to be fair.

"If you think it's rubbish, then why do you bring it up?" Gibbs countered.

"I'm bored. Humor me," I replied dryly, my voice teetering on the edge of a drawl.

"Well… I'm guessin' that phrase was made purely to teach to children; y'know, to harden 'em up a little," he said.

"I suppose so. But it's a lie. Words hurt. They're like this nagging voice at the back of your head, and it changes the way you think," I replied thoughtfully, remembering my own experiences with harsh words.

He nodded, looking pensive for a moment, and then gestured for me to continue along this vein.

I gave a brief smile, before launching into the second part of my speech. "For example, when I was eight, I wrote this poem, and I showed it to a girl at my school, and to this day, I remember exactly what she said about it." My voice turned spiteful, and I acted ditsy so that Gibbs might see what an idiot that girl was. "She said, 'No offense or anything, but I don't really like this poem. It's kinda stupid actually." Of course, I was eight, so I couldn't handle it and burst into tears." I paused for a moment, remarking with some sense of proud satisfaction, "Afterwards, I threw my pencil at her. She always was a nasty little prick."

Gibbs chuckled appreciatively, and I gave another brief smile, before it quickly faded from my face, leaving me feeling dejected as I lapsed again into despondency. "What are we going to do?" I despaired of finding an answer before it was too late. I closed my eyes tight and tried to think.

"We?" I heard Gibbs say.

My eyes flew open wide in shock and quickly narrowed slightly in annoyance. "Well, yeah actually," I said defensively, "Why not? Our aim is the same. To get out of this place. So why not do it together?"

"I wasn't saying we had to do it separately, I was just makin' sure that was the plan," he hastily assured me.

"Okay, good," I said, breathing a sigh of relief.

We lapsed into comfortable silence just in time to hear a muffled shout from above that sounded remotely like, "Captain! They're gaining!" I sat up a little straighter, frowning as the noise increased. I crawled forward to peer through the bars. There was nothing on the level we were on, but I could hear the frantic shouts of sailors above, and the creaking of the hull all around me.

"What's going on up there?" I asked rhetorically, brow furrowed in thought. Before I had time to even think, a huge crash sounded, and I was showered with splintering wood as a large, dark blur sped past my head. "Oh my God!" I shouted, eyes practically popping out of my face. The cannonball had left a crude hole in the bars of my cell, and I frenetically tried to wedge through, but could not. "Damn!" I muttered, ineffectually kicking the bars as another cannonball slammed through my cell, followed closely by another through Gibbs's cell. The door swung free with the pitching, swaying movement of the ship, and I slipped through the door, taking out Dorian's knife from its hiding place in my shoe. I ran to Gibbs's cell, frantically pulling at the door. "Shit!" I cursed, kicking his door.

"Go!" he barked at me, "I'll find a way out later."

"Not a snowball's chance in Hell, Gibbs! It's both or none!" I shouted back over the sound of the cannons, furiously prodding the lock with the knife. With a last jiggle of the small tip of the dagger, I felt the tumblers fall into place beneath the coating of metal that my hand rested on. I wrenched the rusty door open and beckoned to Gibbs, who scrambled out of the cell and headed to the staircase as I followed close behind, the both of us grabbing a weapon on the way. A heavy sword was strapped to my waist by way of a sheath, and I hurriedly followed Gibbs as he cocked a pistol, flicking back the safety.

Saying that the sword hindered my walking would be a huge understatement, but somehow I ended up next to Gibbs as we rushed up past the gun deck, I matching him for speed, surprisingly enough. The bloody scene on deck was enough to make me feel the need to vomit, but I held it back, swallowing and trying to be brave. The ship attacking us looked unnervingly familiar. I gasped. "The Black Pearl?" I shouted to Gibbs.

"Aye!" he replied, looking over briefly at the ship's sleek form, less than spitting distance away.

"What are we waiting for?" I screamed over the sound of the fray.

Gibbs shook himself, as if doing so would clear his head. Finally, he replied loudly, "Nothing." And with that, he jumped to the other ship, beckoning that I do the same.

I put a foot on the railing, trying not to look down at the ocean. Or the gory people, for that matter. Perhaps it was a bit more than spitting distance, in retrospect. I gulped, and then finally took a leap of faith, so to speak, praying for all I was worth until my feet hit the floorboards of the Pearl. My legs suddenly felt like jelly, and I just barely kept from fainting in all the chaos. Feeling wobbly, a bit shaken, but still thankful, I could've cried with relief, but instead whimpered quietly, "Thank you, God!" I looked over to see the other ship, but somehow, they had gone. It seemed as if they had vanished within seconds, now beginning to look rather distant. I frowned a little, and then promptly fainted, and the last thing I thought before being overwhelmed with unconsciousness was, _Why God? Why can't ships have carpeting?_


	16. gasp!

**A/N: just wait. this chapter is very... interesting. and bear in mind the quote that inspired it:**

**"no surprises for the writer, no surprises for the reader."**

"Miss Laney is unwell. She will not have any visitors, especially not the likes of _you_ Captain." _Anamaria?_ I wondered, half asleep, half awake.

"She's on my ship. I 'ave to know wot's wrong with her." _Jack? They sound angry... Did I do something wrong?_

"She's ill, and that's all you need know! Go away." _That _must_ be Anamaria... the voice is feminine._

"She's my responsibility! I should have dropped her off in some port." _Sounds like Jack... but why would he care? Jack and Anamaria... are arguing about me? Why are they arguing? So loud... _I thought.

"She needs to be left alone!" _That must be Anamaria again. _"She's sick!"

"I'm fine," I managed to croak, eyes fluttering open. "Just a cold."

"You're not fine! You passed out for no reason whatsoever!" Anamaria rebutted quickly, soon returning to the more pressing issue of barring Jack from entrance.

"No really… I'm fine," I said, smiling weakly. I started to sit up, but was easily pushed down.

"You need to rest!" Anamaria chastised sternly. I looked up blearily at her, wondering why she was so mad.

"She says she's fine. She's fine!" I heard Jack say from somewhere behind Anamaria, out of view. I turned my head to the direction of his voice and surged up to stand, but Anamaria pushed me down again.

"Why are you arguing?" I mumbled quietly, not even realizing that I was speaking. "Stop arguing…"

"Get some rest, Cara. Sleep," Anamaria ordered, tucking me in.

"Who's Cara?" I asked, confused.

"Sleep," she coaxed. "Just sleep." I gladly obeyed.

It was cold. Too cold. And yet it was still burning hot. I was steaming, and then I was freezing. There was softness beneath my back. My mouth was dry, my body moist. My limbs ached as I slipped in and out of consciousness, the world spinning. I remember a burning in my throat, worried eyes, and the warmth of a hand on my forehead. Voices faded, my senses numbed… then… blackness…

**………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………**

"Cara?" Someone prodded me in the arm. "Are you awake?"

"Mum, I didn't finish my paper… it's worth—" I paused, yawning with a groan. "Half of my fall semester grade…"

"She's not making any sense," someone murmured.

"I don' wanna go to school today… can't I stay home?" I pleaded, pulling the covers up to my chin.

"Cara? Wake up. We 'ave to give you some medicine."

"Cara?" I asked, confused, and then shook my head, ignoring the fact that I'd been called by the wrong name. "Ick. Blechy medicine." I yawned. "Yuck. 'Pepto-Bismol pink' colored medicine. I don't want that."

"Shh, don't worry. That's not the medicine you need," the nameless person answered, sounding somewhat skeptical.

"You're not my mommy…" I said, opening my eyes and coming face to face with Captain Jack Sparrow. I gave him a funny look. "I must be delirious," I mumbled to myself, turning my head so that it was mashed into the pillow and closing my eyes again.

"Cara. Wake up!" He paused and seemed to be fishing for something. "You'll be late!"

I bolted straight out of bed, standing quicker than a bored, hyperactive seven-year-old ever could, and that's really saying something. "I can't miss first period today; I have a test on plantains!" I blurted out, making all haste to stand and get dressed. I looked down at myself. _Why am I dressed already? And what am I wearing? _I frowned, and then looked up, blinking dumbly several times at the sight of Jack, Anamaria, and Gibbs, all staring with varying degrees of worry and incredulity at me.

"Kansas my foot," I muttered sourly under my breath, disgruntled. "I don't even think we're in the 21st century anymore." I shook my head, and it all came back to me. Tortuga, that blasted island, being betrayed by Dorian, escaping, the blood, and finally, fainting. My expression grew tired and weak, wan and weary as almost unbearable lassitude swept over me in a flood. "Don't suppose you have any green tea," I said flatly, feeling listless.

"We have black tea…" Anamaria offered, trailing off.

"That'll do just as well," I consented, giving a thin semblance of a smile that was really more of an exercise in stretching the lips. Tendrils of steam curled pleasantly up from the dark liquid's surface and I stuck my face into the welcoming warmth, breathing deep of the scent. I took a sip. "Finally. Someone who knows to brew tea for longer than two seconds," I gibed gratefully, taking a long draught of the hot tea. I smiled and my eyes opened a little wider. I sighed contentedly, feeling almost blissful. "Caffeine."

Jack looked at me funny, but ignored the last comment, and looking up from the mug, I realized that Jack and I were suddenly the only ones in the room. I cleared my throat uncomfortably, putting the cup down on a bedside table, suddenly feeling undeniably attracted to him.

How had I never noticed it before? Jack was the _paragon_ of sexiness. Plain and simple: _He was hot_. I suddenly and unwontedly wanted him to touch me, hold me, kiss me—anything! I even thought his _eyeliner_ was sexy! I had never had a crush before entering the 17th century, and now that I was on my second, I wished that I could get rid of them.

Everything about him appealed to me; suddenly I noticed his toned, tan, muscled body, his lithe, languorous grace, his sensually dark seductive eyes, the graceful arch of his dark eyebrows, those malleable, utterly kissable lips, the mysteriously inviting aura about him—I stopped myself, tearing my lingering eyes from his slim frame, swallowing hard, and biting my lip. My eyes would slowly drift back to him, and then dart away as I tried to think pure thoughts and failed miserably._ Mind out of gutter. NOW! _I ordered myself, just barely keeping a groan from escaping my lips. _Damn it. I fell for Dorian and where did that get me? I'd best live up to my name as a heartless cynic._ If Jack noticed my agony, he did not comment on it, much to my relief.

His enigmatic voice broke through my reverie as he cleared his throat and looked pointedly at me, and I jerked a little in surprise, but smiled halfheartedly at his raised eyebrow, blushing. So perhaps he _had_ noticed my close scrutiny. "So… uhh… how've ya' been?" I asked awkwardly.

"Well enough. Sit down Cara," he replied, gesturing to the bed. I obeyed, sitting primly on the edge. "We have some things to discuss."

"Well that sounds properly ominous," I commented dryly, casting a wary glance in his direction as he seated himself in a chair.

"Why exactly did you fling yourself over the side of the ship?"

"I didn't want to lose my virginity," I stated, trying to be matter-of-fact, but blushing all the same.

"Why did you come back if you thought your virginity wasn't safe here?" he queried, looking genuinely curious.

"Because I had time to reflect that perhaps you are a good person at heart, and are only every once in a while swayed by your wickedly nefarious tendencies," I replied promptly, pushing my carnal desires away.

He frowned. "How is it that you have such eloquent answers at the ready?"

I shrugged. "Practice in smooth-talking, and paying too much attention to politics," I joked, smiling faintly at the irony of it, thinking particularly of a politician in office whose speaking skills were limited to nu-cu-ler, y'all, and 'weapons of mass destruction.'

"I see," he murmured pensively, looking worryingly serious. My smile faded. "You can't stay on this ship, Cara."

I gaped at him, my mouth dropping open in shock, and I probably looked very much like a fish. "Why not?"

"You're not fit to this life," he answered simply, but there seemed to be something else there. I shook myself from that foolish train of thought. _This isn't fanfiction here. This is real. There's no way he's gonna say some sappy love speech or some such nonsense._

"How would you know that?" I challenged, eyebrows raised expectantly.

He raised his eyebrows right back. "If you don't mind me saying so, it's a bit obvious. How many times 'ave you been on a ship?"

I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks from humiliation as I looked down and answered meekly, "Four."

He started at that, looking at me with incredulity and disbelief written all across his face. "Good God, woman! I didn't think it was _that_ bad…"

"I've led a rather sheltered life," I commented dryly in response.

"Evidently," he replied shortly.

"Well, what do you propose I do? Go drown myself? I'm more than willing," I suggested acerbically with a sarcastic smile.

"No!" he exclaimed. "I should've known you'd say something like that. I was thinking more along the lines of leaving you with a friend…" he put forth tentatively, trailing off delicately.

"A friend in Port Royal? A friend by the name of… say… William Turner?" I asked, expecting the answer to be a resounding 'no' seeing as generally I got things wrong.

"Yes, actually," he replied, looking absolutely thrilled. "You're acquaintances?"

"Let me put it this way. I know him, but he doesn't know me," I stated carefully.

"Why would you stalk a eunuch like Will?" he asked, nose wrinkled slightly in distaste.

"I'm not stalking him," I snapped irritably. "I've heard of him is all."

Jack looked somewhat unconvinced, but shrugged and said, "To each their own."

"I'm not a stalker," I muttered defensively, adding in my mind, _not for him anyway._

"Well, stalker or not, that's who you'll be living with for a while. Savvy?"

"Actually, no. It's not particularly savvy in any way, shape or form," I answered sharply, frowning.

"I think your being a little hard on the whelp," he replied humorously.

I gave him a sour, frank look. "Stop skirting the issue. I have no problems with said whelp… none at all, but I do object to being placed in his care like some sort of… unruly child—" At this he grinned with a look that said, 'what did you _think_ I was going for?' to which I scowled and then continued. "—who can't take care of herself. I can take care of myself, Jack."

"Ah, but see, 'taking care' of yourself could mean suicide. I wouldn't want that to happen," he explained patronizingly. And there I was again, with a chauvinistic man looking down condescendingly at me as if I were a small, obstinate, and _stupid_ child.

"I do not plan on committing suicide," I said, scowling again at him.

"Ah, so you wish to do it by mistake," he interpreted, a smile lurking on his features.

"Gah!" I cried out in exasperation, temporarily forgetting my attraction to him in my annoyance. "No! For the love of God, stop harping on that!" I sighed. "Why do you have this… this… conviction that I want to kill myself?"

Suddenly his face grew overwhelmingly serious and he leaned a little bit closer to me, eyes intense. The proximity of our bodies felt intoxicating, and I swallowed hard, shrinking back as he drew closer and closer. "Because sometimes I think you _do_," he murmured, looking at me straight in the eye. "Sometimes you _do_ want to kill yourself." His eyes looked almost gentle and he said softly, "I can't let that happen." He stopped leaning (finally) and his face was about four inches from mine. "Because that would be a shame," he whispered, his warm breath caressing the bare skin of my face. I blushed bright red, biting my lip and hoping I could conceal my emotions for a bit longer.

He was evidently finished speaking, but did not lean back, instead leaning _forward_, so I pushed myself backwards on the bed as surreptitiously as possible until met with an all too solid wall. _Damn! _At this point my body trembled uncontrollably and I was half afraid, half eager. "Are you trying to seduce me?" I asked, trying for light nonchalance, and ending up with a shaky sounding question.

"Perhaps," he replied ambiguously, his lips curling up into a smile. "Would you like me to?"

I blinked numbly for a few seconds, unable to think as he closed the distance between us. It was then that a voice filled my head. _"Teen mothers! Bah! I would have sympathy, but I can't, seeing as they brought it upon themselves. Don't ever do that! ...And don't smoke either." _The voice had an uncanny resemblance to my mother's.

I shook myself and gave him a weary look. I squeezed my eyes shut and felt my breath hissing out as I said glumly, "No."

He gave me a look that said, 'that's what _you_ think,' smiling seductively. But I shook my head. "Damn it, _she's in my head!_" I muttered loudly.

"Who?" he asked, looking annoyingly amused by my announcement.

"My mother," I replied darkly.

"A kiss or two wouldn't hurt though…" he said suggestively with a wink.

"I don't know… I've nev—" I started uneasily, but he cut me off as his lips captured mine in a searing kiss. I felt a shudder go through my body as I immediately responded, our tongues intertwining. The kiss spoke of passionate lust, his mouth demanding, almost harsh as I reciprocated the ardent hunger. I felt a blissful moan escape me and he began to tug at the laces of my shirt, our mouths still glued together…

**………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..**

**………………………………………………………………………………………………...**

…and then I woke up. I blinked several times, adjusting to the darkness of the room, and then my hand fell on something hard that felt oddly like plastic. _Plastic in the 17th century? _I wondered. Suddenly, a computer screen lit up before me and whirred its greeting, my essay glowing in all its glory in front of my shocked face. My mouth was hanging open for several minutes as I just gaped at the computer, feeling wimpy tears well up in my eyes. I sat back in the black chair that I knew so well, stricken.

"I can't have dreamed all of that," I told myself, shaking. "It's just not possible." The tears began to fall. "I won't believe it." I closed my eyes very tightly, feeling as though my heart might burst. "I am still in the 17th century," I said, desperately willing it to happen. "I am still in the 17th century," I whimpered again, the tears flowing pretty heavily now. I opened my eyes. No luck. So, I closed them again. "Third time's the charm!" I murmured hopefully. "_I am still in the 17th century!_" I wiped my face, the tears slowly subsiding, and opened my eyes once more, believing with all my heart that I would be greeted with the welcome sight of Jack.

You may very well be able to guess what I saw when I opened my eyes. If you can't, then here's a hint: what I saw made me break down crying. And they were not tears of joy either.

**A/N: well? like it? hate it? want to burn it? please give feedback on this one. if you want me to change it, i will. (depending on how many people want changes, etc.) i surprised myself with this chapter. hopefully i surprised you too. also: hopefully, you don't hate me for this chapter. please review! i hope you liked the overall story!**


	17. i fooled everybody! even myself!

**A/N: okay, this chapter is really short and EXTREMELY UNINSPIRED but that's not the point. based on your reviews, i've decided to continue, but i must warn you: the story might suck from now on, who knows. im not sure where to go with it, so if anyone has suggestions, im open.**

I may have been rather distraught, but I still had the presence of mind to not tell anyone what happened—they'd think I was crazy and send me to a shrink! I couldn't let _that_ happen. So, sighing, I turned to finish my essay, the feeling of monotony returning to me in droves as I scrolled down to the end. But what had once been blank space was now full of words, all of which seemed to be italicized. My eyes narrowed and I began to read the paragraph that had appeared.

_I apologize for bringing you back in such a... shall I say... _heated_ moment, but it was entirely necessary. Please understand that what happened, happened. No offense, but your imagination isn't quite broad enough for you to have made it up. I saw that you missed your family and brought you back, so you should be grateful. So stop crying and get on with your life. You'll find that I left it completely in order, so you can thank me for that. Best regards,_

_Nameless Wanderer_

My eyes narrowed further after finishing reading, and I fought to control my highly ignitable temper. I managed to keep it in control, taking several calming breaths and muttering, "Bastard." Nonetheless, I saved the document as it was, copying my essay to another document and writing my conclusion without thinking. I saved and closed both documents mechanically, my hands clenching into fists as I contemplated the "Nameless Wanderer." _Who is that? And why'd they have to send me back in time? _I stifled a yawn, and trudged to my room, now thoroughly depressed. Somehow I still held the hope that when I woke up I would be back in Jack's cabin, but the cynical, larger part of me knew that it wouldn't happen. So I slept with a heavy heart, awakening to the blare of classical music with a wince, just like always. Things were back to normal. And I sensed that they'd be that way for good.

It had been a week of dragging myself through school; a week of explaining why I looked sick; a week of assuring everyone of my wellbeing—a long week of unbearable lassitude that finally rested itself all over my body. I walked slowly, just making it to classes, and it was my last class of the day. Math. I thought I might cry from stress, but didn't, plopping down into my seat at the front of the class, just as I always did.

"Hey, are you okay? You don't look so good," Kelly said, looking not so concerned. In fact, she looked positively gleeful.

I had the urge to snarl back, _Since when did you care?_ but resisted it, saying bitterly instead, "I'm fine. I'm absolutely positively fine. I feel wonderful! Just like a bloody unicorn surrounded by bloody fairies in a bloody meadow." I said it with an approximately 17th century accent and almost burst into tears at the realization. Kelly didn't notice, or if she did, she was containing her joy.

"Whatever," she replied, turning to her work. I rolled my eyes and turned to mine.

The class period seemed to go on, and on, and on without end. The clock taunted me, ticking and tocking loudly while the teacher droned on about some equation that no one cared about.

As I sat there, glaring at the clock with a cloud of gloom over my head, I blacked out for a few seconds (I seemed to be doing a lot of that lately), and when my eyes opened, I was standing, feeling the salty spray of the sea on my face, the sun on my skin, and the wind in my hair, blowing it wildly about. The ground pitched forward and I fell, landing hard on the floor. I rolled over and looked up at the sky. A black mast loomed in my vision, as did a billowing pirate flag. I hugged myself. "I'm back!"

**A/N: suggestions? pwease? (puppy dog eyes)**


	18. in which stuff happens

**A/N: my apologies that this took so long to get up. i've been having to work. if you haven't read the odyssey, some of the dialouge might be a little confusing for you, but i figure you folks are pretty erudite. :) This chappie is pretty long, so brace yourselves. i apologize ahead of time for my terrible GUMS mistakes. enjoy! and please review!**

**disclaimer: ain't got nothin' honey.**

"Ha ha!! Cue triumphant/adventurous music!" I exclaimed, standing up. I was about to do my dorky victory dance, but stopped myself just in time. I made my way to the front of the ship, pitching back and forth with the ship. The ship pitched forward and I ran smack dab into Jack.

"Sorry," I said unrepentantly, pulling back. There was an annoyingly awkward silence. "Hello," I said, probably sounding rather stupid. He looked at me like I had developed several reptilian heads, and tilted his own not-so-reptilian head to one side as if trying to remember something.

"Do I know you?" he asked, sounding befuddled.

My mouth dropped open in shock, and I gaped at him incredulously for a solid five minutes. "That's just plain mean," I accused, disbelieving.

"Are you a relative of Will Turner's by any chance?" he asked me, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"I'm not related to a bloody eunuch thanks very much!" I snapped. I gave him an extremely exasperated look. "Don't you remember? Cara Laney? The girl who was depressed all the time?"

"Oh, her! That's you?" He peered at my face, and his eyes narrowed. "Did we have sex?"

I smacked him without even thinking. "No! Is that all that men think about in this time period? Disgusting!" I exclaimed. Then it dawned on me. "So the only reason you wanted to seduce me was because you really wanted to have sex, is that it?"

"Pretty much," he answered, flipping open his compass and looking out across the horizon.

"Men!" I exclaimed with vehemence and revulsion abound. "They're so _disgusting_!"

His lips curled into a devilish cat-like smile. "I didn't see you complaining."

"Oh, sod off," I snapped irritably, striding off.

_How dare he?! God!! I just can't stand men! _I thought to myself, fuming inwardly. I considered making a solemn vow to never fall for a guy again, but then decided that such a thing would be way too melodramatic. Not to mention impossible. I settled on being mad at Jack for a while.

"Well, it's true!" he persisted, following me and breaking into my thoughts. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself actually."

I said nothing in response. The situation deserved more than just the measly cold shoulder, but out of the goodness of my heart, it was my single punitive action. I turned ever so slightly so that he was out of my vision, staring coldly out across the horizon.

"You'll have to talk to me eventually!" he teased in a sing-song voice.

I kept my expression stolid, barely moving but to blink. And on second thought, to breathe.

"Well, while you're just standing there saying nothing, I would rather like to inquire as to your name that you don't ever respond to," he said. "Your name is obviously not Cara Laney, as you do not respond to it, so wot is your name?"

_Stupid git, _I thought, _Why ask me a question while I'm giving you the silent treatment?_

"Well, if you're not going to answer then I'll just have to call you 'my little sex kitten' from now on, savvy?" he responded to my silence, grinning. I fought to keep my expression unresponsive and was successful. Until he began to really harp on it that is. "I had a lot of fun last night, my little sex kitten," he crooned. "My lovely little sex kitten!" he sang out, moving his hand over mine. I hastily moved my hand away and tried to ignore him. It was virtually impossible. "Will I get some more tonight?" he asked huskily, advancing on me. "My little sex kitten," he said again, his hand pushing into my hip while I tried to squirm away. His other hand ended up on my other hip and held me tight as I struggled to get free in vain.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and exploded. Who saw that coming a mile away? "For God's sake, **_shut up! _**We didn't even have sex _once_! I'm a freaking virgin, and I'm gonna stay that way!" I hissed, extremely vexed, thrashing about. He pretty much ignored my comment, moving so that his body cradled mine and I was sandwiched against him and a wall. _Holy shit, _I thought, trying not to think about how comfortable the intimate position was. He leaned into me, his hot breath tickling my skin as he whispered, "_My_ little sex kitten," giving me a provocative squeeze.

I jumped about ten feet in the air, squeaking something that sounded distinctly like, "Meep!" and wrenching away from him, patting my clothes down and crossing my arms defensively across my chest. "None of that!"

He pulled away suddenly, smiling like the devil himself. "I just like to tease you," he informed me, adding thoughtfully, "No one else squeaks in quite the same way."

I gave him my most indignant look and then turned away to be met with the welcome sight of land in the distance. "Hallelujah! Land!" I exclaimed to myself, mostly relieved to have some sort of distraction.

Indeed it was true, and moments later someone shouted, "Land ho!" What seemed like thousands of ships were all there tied up at the dock, bobbing with the gentle, rhythmic sway of the ocean. I smiled, expecting us to slow down and stop at the dock. We didn't, speeding past it and out of sight.

"You're not sacking this town, right?" I asked Jack, giving him a suspicious, wary glance as he made his way to the wheel. "Because that would make you like Odysseus, and being like him means that you're a pompous git."

He laughed, and I surmised that it was partly at what I said and partly at me. "Well he was!" I exclaimed defensively. "Odysseus was _totally_ a pompous git. And he wasn't all that heroic either."

"He wasn't _that_ pompous. He was just a good leader," he rebutted, still inwardly laughing at me. He grasped the wheel with two hands and began to steer.

"Well, _that's_ a bald-faced lie. He never has the best interest of the crew at heart," I replied frankly.

"I wouldn't say that. When they're on the island of the Lotus-eaters, he goes back for the crewmembers that have been drugged and makes them come home," he reasoned fairly, tilting his head mildly to one side while aggressively forcing the wheel to the left.

"This is true," I consented, ignoring his somewhat violent looking actions. "But when they're escaping from Polyphemus, Odysseus decides to be a stupid clod and taunts the Cyclops, which is basically dooming him and his men. He gives away his name! Shouldn't he have known that Polyphemus was related to a God? And besides, taunting the Cyclops at all was a bit rash, don't you think?"

"I guess," he said, looking not quite convinced. "But look at the way he avoids temptation—he could've had eternal life, but he refused just to go home and see his wife. That's pretty darn heroic."

I shook my head a little, stuck to my ways. Which, by the way, weren't old-fashioned, quite the opposite in fact. "But he wasn't faithful along the way. He slept with Calypso and Circe. In a nutshell, that's adultery," I reminded him. "Not to mention the fact that he totally degrades women all the time. The whole culture is full of freakin' double standards." Then it struck me. "Hey, wait a minute… you never did answer my question… Are you going to sack Port Royal?"

He chuckled a little, shaking his head patronizingly. "No, I'm not. Because that would make me a pompous git."

"True, but even considering the possibility makes you a borderline pompous git," I reminded him and he let go of the wheel.

"Weigh anchor!" he called to the men (and Anamaria), largely ignoring me. There was a frightening lurch and then we were anchored in a largely secluded cove, leaving the ship by way of longboat and soon hitting the sandy beach of the oh-so-prim-and-proper Port Royal.

I sighed, smiling as we began to walk up the gently sloping beach. The smile dropped and I turned to the whole crew, walking backwards as I talked to them, waving my pointer finger around in warning. "Just wait until commercialism sets in. Then _they'll_ be the ones feeling banana-y," I said solemnly.

Jack raised his eyebrows, while Gibbs agreed, "Amen to that."

I continued on, feeling a sort of reckless abandon. I was outside of myself, so to speak. "As much as bananas are an issue, it's the plantains you really have to worry about. Gotta keep an eye on those plantains. Their duplicity taints whoever is around them. There's no telling what a person will do when under the influence of a plantain. Be above the influence!" In my mind I gibed, _and so the Great Plantain Campaign began._ I tripped on a rock, scowled, and cursed, but then looked up again at the crew and smiled inanely. "See? Gotta watch those plantains!" The pirates gave me dubious looks, which I studiously ignored.

The silence was overwhelmingly awkward. Naturally, I had to break it. "So where does Mr. Turner live anyhow?" I asked, determinedly cheerful as we stepped onto what I surmised to be the main road of Port Royal.

Jack said but one word. "Follow." So I did. The pirates dispersed in various directions to various humble abodes, all of which, I assumed, served some crude form of alcohol, and many of which probably also had numerous extra rooms for certain… not-so-prim-and-proper activities.

All of the oh-so-prim-and-proper ladies of Port Royal were giving me their less-than-polite glares, and I knew that by the time we had reached Will's dwelling, there would be several nasty rumors started about me. I looked down at myself and grimaced sourly. I was wearing a pair of jeans, a blue Life is Good t-shirt, and a very nerdy corduroy over-shirt. My brown hair was loose, dead straight down to my lower back, fanning out prettily across my shoulders, so it was pretty obvious that I was a girl. _What are they gonna say? _I wondered. It's not as if they could accuse me of being a loose woman; after all, the only skin showing was my hands, face, and neck. Finally I just shrugged. _To Hell with them for all I care,_ I thought callously, shoving my hands moodily into my pockets. _At least I'm not showing my ankles! _

Jack shot me a quizzical glance that said something like, 'what's wrong with you _now_?' I gave him my death glare in response and then let my eyes flick back to the dirty road. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a storm cloud following me around. Everything I looked at, I looked at with intense hatred, and people seemed to be unnerved by my piercing glares. I felt scornful towards every adult, scowling at them with undisguised contempt, barely keeping myself from growling as we passed numerous stores…

And then I saw an adorable little baby girl, a light layer of blonde fuzz crowning her head as she babbled in cute baby talk. She gave me an endearingly innocent gap-toothed grin, and I couldn't help but let it change my mood, giving her my sunniest smile and stopping to make funny faces at her as Jack looked on, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to continue walking. Yep, I was definitely PMS-ing; that much is for sure.

Soon we had reached the section of town that I knew from the movie—and it was easy to tell where Will was, as he poked his head out the window for reasons unknown to the rational mind. His expression changed radically, from concentrated and serious, to disbelieving and skeptical. "Jack Sparrow?" he asked incredulously. I'm not sure why he asked the question, as it's pretty hard to mistake Jack for anyone else.

"No, it's Commodore Norrington," I replied sarcastically. He glared.

"Be nice, Cara whose name is not Cara," Jack chided, leading me into the blacksmith's shop.

"Oh, look who's talking, Mr. 'Let's let William die just so I can have a bloody ship'," I retorted. _Wow. The bitter sarcasm is really flowing today._

He turned to Will, whose head was not out the window and in danger of flying projectiles anymore, ignoring my comment. "And that's _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, whelp."

Will was now looking at _him_ as opposed to me. I decided to lose the attitude, even if it was satisfying to finally just be a complete bitch. "Is this _your_ bonny lass, Jack?" Will asked, sounding almost as if he was teasing him.

I laughed appreciatively, but Jack just raised his eyebrows. "No," I answered for him. "We happen to be acquaintances," I said diplomatically, adding less diplomatically, "And I did _not_ sleep with him."

Will smiled a little at that, and then said, "What is it you need?"

"Cara, whose name is obviously not Cara, needs to be looked after. She's rather… odd," Jack put forth delicately. _Anachronistic is the word, _I thought, but said nothing as he spoke. "So she'll need some time to get used to Port Royal, and she'll be staying with you. And make sure she doesn't commit suicide!" And with that, he dashed off, leaving me alone with William. The silence was more awkward than any other awkward silence I had ever endured.

I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "Actually, I don't need any looking after… so I'll just be on my way…" I made my way to the door, but he stopped me. _Damn! So much for that idea,_ I thought ruefully.

"If I didn't take care of you, Jack would find out, and that would be bad for both of us," he informed me flatly.

"Since when did you care what Jack thinks?" I asked incredulously.

He was quiet for a moment. "That's a good point, actually," he admitted.

"Good, so I'll just be on my way…" I tried once again to leave. Foiled again.

"What will you do?"

_That's a good question... _I thought. I shrugged and smiled winsomely. "I don't know… wouldn't mind going into trade… maybe get myself a little shop somewhere…"

"Do you sew?"

I tried hard to hide my disdain; really, I did. "No. I was thinking more along the lines of a general goods store."

"Ha! Good one," he said, laughing and grinning. I just stared. The grin died. "You're serious." He blinked at me several times. "Sorry to tell you, but it would never work," he said. I scowled, but figured he knew better than I what would happen if I opened a general store.

"So what can I do?" I asked. This was starting to get exasperating.

"I don't know. What do you know how to do?"

"Not much," I replied flatly. "Sing, read, write, cook somewhat, play piano, knit, speak Chinese somewhat, do arithmetic, write essays, write fiction… yeah… that's pretty much it."

He was silent for a long time. I raised my eyebrows expectantly. "I'll ask Elizabeth. She'll think of something."

I rolled my eyes slightly, but said nothing save for, "Okay then. What now?"

"You can watch me make swords… I guess…" he suggested halfheartedly, trailing off pathetically.

"Sure why not," I replied, and he did not notice my enthusiasm, or more correctly, my lack thereof. So I settled down to the monotony of watching him work, zoning out as I was wont to do.

**A/N: flamers will be used to keep warm, cuz it's bloody cold in this room. please send some. (jk)**


	19. Debutanteness

**A/N: sorry, there might not be so much of jack for a little. the only warning for this chapter is that it talks about monthlies. inspired by reviewer: mar1966 (i think) thanks!**

I came to awareness with someone snapping his or her fingers about an inch from the tip of my nose. _How rude, _was the first thing I thought, followed by, _Don't pop the bubble, dude._ I shook myself, and an instant scowl was at the ready, and soon had been deployed, taking precedence over any indignation that had been showing on my face from being brought so unceremoniously to responsiveness. "Need something?" I asked a little tartly, feeling rather annoyed that my peace had been interrupted.

Will pointed to a woman who I knew was Elizabeth, trying to think of something to say, and lamely coming up with, "She's here."

I just barely restrained myself from rolling my eyes at his maladroit behavior, and summoned up a polite smile from the deep recesses of my facial expressions, turning to Elizabeth and holding my hand out for a handshake. "You must be Miss Swann. I'm delighted to meet you. I believe Mr. Turner had the thought that you would be able to shed light on a rather annoying predicament of ours."

"May I inquire as to the nature of said predicament?" Elizabeth asked back, just as politely.

"Certainly. This predicament being that a certain pirate captain, of whom we are all acquaintances, has saddled this poor, pathetic—" The word pathetic I spat out with a bit too much vehemence. "—blacksmith with the oh-so-heavy burden of me. I say, why not let me go start a business of some sort, but apparently this is unheard of," I replied, forgetting to be polite about Will's… shortcomings.

She raised her oh-so-aristocratic eyebrows, but did not say anything about my all too obvious contempt for her soon-to-be-husband. "How is your opening a store a problem?" She turned to Will for an answer as opposed to me, who, naturally, looked sheepish and shrugged.

"I didn't think it would be proper for a woman to open a general store…" he defended weakly, trailing off and sounding painfully pathetic.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, turning to me now. I braced myself for attack, just in case. "This would be a problem. I was thinking more along the lines of a dress shop; it would be shameless for a woman to open a general store."

I gave a half irritated half exasperated sigh, probably looking slightly like one of those exaggerated anime characters when frustrated. "Everyone keeps telling me that," I commented sourly. "I do _not_ sew." This I said with conviction, spitting out the consonants with violence.

Elizabeth gasped in a rather impolite way before she could stop herself, disbelief written all across her face. "You don't know how to sew?" _Oh no,_ I thought sarcastically, _gasp, shock, horror!_

"I loathe sewing. I will not sew," I hissed, and then crying, "I refuse!" Again the 'most aristocratic eyebrow in the Spanish Main' went up quizzically.

"Okay then, that would be a problem." She paused and thought for a few moments. "I guess you'll just have to masquerade as a woman of nobility." Now_ I_ was raising my eyebrows, but it probably didn't look quite so upper class. I had what I like to call, 'lower class eyebrow raising skills.'

"I don't think I could pull it off; my eyebr—I mean, my… manners aren't good enough," I said, laughing inwardly and fighting to keep a serious face.

"I wouldn't say that. You'll be fine." Suddenly she brightened immeasurably, and a brilliantly sunny smile stole across her features. "I'll help you! This will be fun!"

"Fun for who? A sadist?" I muttered cynically under my breath. Luckily, she didn't hear; she was far too excited. She grabbed my arm and I winced, hoping that I wouldn't bruise.

"Come on! We have to get started!" she squealed, unceremoniously dragging me to her mansion where I would become a glimmering vision of mannerly debutante-ness.

And thus I was press-ganged into my illustrious career as an imposter.

Who would've thought that Elizabeth, of all people, would be so damn strong? She was like a freaking psycho fitness Barbie ™, dragging me all over God's creation with such ease that it ought to have been a crime.

Shoving me through the door of a dress shop, Elizabeth's glorious campaign began as she pulled me from one corner of the store to another. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

"Ooh! Look! This fabric would be perfect for a morning gown, don't you think?" she asked me. Me, the girl who would wear jeans and a t-shirt everyday if she were allowed.

"Sure," I consented noncommittally. "Just as long as it's not green, it's fine."

"Fair enough," she said, shrugging. She frowned. The simple expression would strike fear in the hearts of little children. "But we'll have to work on the way you talk. It's terrible. Honestly, where are you from that your accent is so odd?"

The look on my face could be most aptly described as 'sour.' "Somewhere very far away, in more ways than one," I replied cryptically. She did not seem satisfied, and gave me a look that said, 'don't think this is the end of _that_ question,' but moved on nonetheless.

"Time for fitting! Cassie! Sarah!" she sang out imperiously. "Would you be so kind as to take Miss Laney's measurements?"

They both bobbed their heads in respectful nods, keeping their eyes lowered. "Of course Miss Swann. T'would be no trouble at all," one of them said.

"Thank you," said Elizabeth with an upper class flourish—a little hand gesture that made me think instantly of Paris Hilton just in the way it was so languidly lackadaisical. "I'll just be browsing while you do that." She smiled winsomely and then was gone in a flash of silk and pearls and sickeningly insipid debutante-ness, disappearing behind a shelf of fabric in various shades of pink. I began to wonder if Elizabeth was girlier than we all had once thought. I mean, we all knew that she was a woman, but many of us thought that she was rather adventurous and tomboy-esque. Apparently not. The maids were going about their brisk, business like way, taking my measurements, until I felt nature call.

"Where the… umm… privy?" I asked, wondering if that was the word they used for it in these days.

"Just down the hall and to the left, Miss," one of them replied. _Score, _I thought, glad that they knew what I was talking about. I still had no clue as to which maid was which, but thanked her and followed her directions, trotting into a medium sized room that actually didn't smell half bad. I surmised that they had just cleaned it, and walked into one of the stalls closing the door behind me. A few minutes later, anyone who had been listening at the door would have heard a loud and rather panicky, "Shit! I knew I was having mood swings for a reason!"

What was I suppose to do without pads and tampons? "God, there isn't even any toilet paper!" I exclaimed, disgusted and horrified. It had just barely started, so I could probably get away with it for a few more minutes. I rushed out and back into the room, probably looking like a maniac. I tugged on Elizabeth's sleeve, and decided to pretend that it was my first time. "Elizabeth… my monthlies… they've started for the first time… what do I do?" I whispered urgently. She laughed, and my face turned red. I felt like crying, and it felt like she was being so callously insensitive.

"Don't worry, I'll get some cloth," she said laughingly, bustling off. Soon she was back, with a bundle of white cloth in her hand. She smiled, handed it over, and made shooing motions as I ran back to the privy.

I sighed. Of all the times to have my period, the 17th century was certainly a sucky one. "How craptastic," I muttered to myself. I uncharacteristically tried to look on the bright side. "At least I didn't have to use leaves," I murmured quietly, gathering my composure.

Soon enough I was back in the room and my measurements had been taken. I tried not to act too truculent, but it's hard not to be a git when you feel like crap.

"Time to take the fittings for your dresses!" Elizabeth cried, looking positively jubilant. I felt the blood drain from my face as I went pale. It was going to be a long day.


	20. Feeling Like Doctor Phil

**A/N: my friend told me that the last chapter had elizabeth rather ooc, so i've tried to explain that in this chappie, and fix it. i rather like this chapter. enjoy! and as always, please read and review!**

It was seven hours later in an opulently decorated parlor of the Governor's luxurious mansion, and I thought I might die. My corset very effectively kept me from breathing, and the room was sickeningly hot. I wondered if I might develop asthma by the end of the day. Not only that, but I was thinking of cake again. So when the maid bustled in with a silver tray positively loaded with sweet little delectable cakes in hand, I began to drool.

"Cakes, Miss Swann? Or for your friend?" the maid asked respectfully.

"Yes, thank you," I breathed out gratefully in a rush, reaching for a cake.

_**CRACK!**_

"Ow! What was that for!" I rubbed my injured hand and glared balefully at the hard fan in Elizabeth's hand. "I wouldn't be surprised if you'd broken bones!"

"If you want to keep your figure, then you can't be eating that," she informed me.

I groaned. "I know that, but I've been bereft of cake for weeks now!" I glared. "_I need my cake_," I growled through gritted teeth. I reached again towards the heavenly victuals on the ornamented tray.

"No!" She smacked my wrist with her fan, and I winced, rubbing the spot with displeasure. "You don't." She turned to the young maid. "Teresa, take this away please. I am far too full to even think of eating cake! And it is far too tempting for _her_ to grab the tray and shove them all in her gob," Elizabeth ordered austerely. The maid studiously ignored Elizabeth's easy usage of slang terms and consented.

"What do you think I am, some kind of savage?" I asked indignantly, sorrowfully watching the maid draw away and leave the room, taking the beautiful cakes with her. "All I needed was one!"

"Even one is too much," Elizabeth replied, sitting primly on the edge of the polished Chippendale furniture. _Stupid diet Nazi, _I thought resentfully to myself.

And so we proceeded to gossip. Or rather, Elizabeth proceeded to tell me all about her neighbors and their problems, which is probably considered gossip anyway.

"Lucinda's cousin Mary was escorted by this man named Alexander, but everyone calls him Alex for short, and Tara, Mary's sister would have been there, but she has gone off to a convent, which I simply cannot believe! She is the least godly person I know, and she harbors an extreme dislike for the bible, but somehow, she's becoming a nun!" Elizabeth went on and on and on. I just sat, keeping my mouth shut, nodding and smiling and making agreeable noises.

Elizabeth finally stopped for air, and I took the opportunity to jump in and change the subject with the first thing I thought of. "Elizabeth, have you always been this girly?" I asked suddenly, feeling awkward when the room fell silent.

"Well…" She seemed to be fighting herself. "No. I suppose I always have enjoyed dressing up and the like… but it was different. When I was little, I was _pretending_ to be a lady. It was fun dressing up as a debutante—it was a game. But now that it's real… I don't know. It all feels superficial… which makes me think that _I'm_ superficial maybe! And I wonder if people see that!"

"You're not superficial Elizabeth," I said seriously.

"But I am! I don't really like this—corsets and wealth and all that shit. I don't mind dresses, but the rest I could do without! People think that if you're feminine you can't be independent and vice versa! I want to be able to think for myself! I want to make a living for myself! I want to see things! And truth be told, I don't really want to be married!" Her hand flew over her mouth, eyes wide. The hand slowly dropped to her side. "There. I said it."

_Oh dear, _I thought, _what a Dr. Phil moment. _"Elizabeth… are you saying that you don't want to marry Will?"

She groaned in frustration. "That's just it—I don't know!"

I was having a heart to heart with Elizabeth Swann—a person whom I'd thought was a fictional character up 'til only a few weeks ago. Life can be very strange sometimes. "Well… why don't you want to be married?"

"Because it will hold me down!" she exclaimed. "I'll be labeled as property!"

"You're already labeled as property. Your father owns you," I said fuzzily, a little confused, as I did not know very much about 17th century politics.

"It's not the same though! At least my father's older than I am," she said.

"Do you love Will?" I asked. Now I _really_ felt like Dr. Phil.

"Yes. That much I know," she replied firmly, looking me in the eye.

"Okay… I don't see what the problem is. Why don't you just talk to Will about it? He seems to love you too, and I think he'd probably be pretty accommodating where your freedom is involved," I told her, trying to reason fairly and without bias.

She looked at me with a combination of skepticism and horror, like I had become Scylla and had sprouted several hissing heads. "Have you been out of the loop for a while?" she asked me delicately.

I tilted my head to one side, considering that phrase, and then nodding. "Yes, you could say that," I consented. "But I still think you should try to talk to him."

Elizabeth sighed. "Perhaps."

"Let's go," I said suddenly, determined.

"What?"

"Let's go!" I repeated, jumping off of my seat and vaulting to where Elizabeth dejectedly sat. I grabbed her hand and began to pull. "We're going!"

"Now!" she asked, sounding alarmed.

"Yes!" I exclaimed, feeling empowered. "_Now!_ These problems must be resolved _now!_" It took a large amount of effort on my part, but I had soon pulled Elizabeth from her seat and was now dragging her out of the house and down the street, making my way to the blacksmith's shop with conviction.

Elizabeth let herself be dragged, getting her skirts dusty in the process. _Oh well. Most things are more important than fancy clothing, _I thought. _Except for nuclear wars, _I added sarcastically.

I forced her through the door of the blacksmith's shop and Will turned around curiously, raising his eyebrows. "Elizabeth, is something the matter?"

"Elizabeth has something she would like to talk to you about," I butted in before Elizabeth could say anything against it. "I'll be waiting outside."

I moved just out of view and placed my ear to the door. I figured it was time for me to drop some eaves.

"What's wrong?" I heard Will say, and I could just picture the concerned look on his face.

"Well… regarding our marriage…" Elizabeth started, but it sounded like Will panicked at those few words.

"Elizabeth, I love you! I couldn't live without you, please don't call off the marriage!"

"I'm not," she assured him softly. "It's just that… I'm afraid."

"Of what?" he asked. I barely kept myself from snorting. _Marriage! Duh! It's perfectly reasonable for one to be afraid of marriage, _I thought to myself.

"Losing my freedom. That's what marriage has looked like to me for a long time—ever since I knew what it was," said Elizabeth. I listened harder, completely absorbed.

"Miss, you're blocking the doorway," someone said from behind me.

"Huh? I mean… uhh… pardon?" I really had to work on my speaking skills.

A tall, dark haired man stood there, looking imposing. "You're blocking the doorway. I need to speak to the blacksmith," he said patronizingly, sounding a bit waspish.

"Well, you'll just have to wait," I informed him, just as belligerently. "The blacksmith just so happens to be having a very private and crucial conversation." I resumed my dropping of eaves, pressing my ear once more against the door.

"Ah, I suppose that's why you're eavesdropping on this oh-so-terribly private and crucial conversation?" he said dryly.

I turned and gave him my sourest, most annoyed look. "I need to make sure that everything works out. It's my fault they're having this conversation anyhow," I informed him.

"And that obviously gives you the right to eavesdrop on them," he gibed sarcastically.

"Indeed," I replied coldly, turning back once again to my eavesdropping. But by this time, I had missed most of the conversation and only heard Elizabeth wrapping up the discussion.

"Okay then," I heard her say, so I pulled away from the door, and just in time too, for in the next moment, she was by my side, smiling.

"So it went well then?" I asked, pretending that I hadn't heard the conversation at all.

"Oh, don't tell me you don't know already. I'm sure you were eavesdropping the whole time," she told me laughingly.

"Well I never!" I exclaimed indignantly.

The stranger jumped in and said, "She was." I glared.

"Only for part of it. Thanks to _this_ fellow," I said irritably. Elizabeth just laughed.

"Good day sir," she said politely.

"And good day to you as well," he replied just as politely.

I scowled. Elizabeth rolled her eyes at me and we left, Elizabeth whispering lightheartedly to me, "You need to act more like a debutante."

"I'm workin' on it," I defended myself, smiling.

Elizabeth smiled back. "Work harder," she said, to which I rolled my eyes.

We walked back to the mansion in amicable silence, but when we finally came to the door, I looked over to her, saying quietly, "I'm glad things are gonna work out for you two—you deserve it."

"Thanks," she replied, and we both went our separate ways, she going to her room, and I to mine. I was more than eager to start breathing properly again. Entering my room, I was able to strip down to my new chemise, removing the restricting corset with a contented sigh as I gulped in air, lying on the lavish four-poster bed and soon drifting gratefully into the land of sleep.

**A/N: comments? questions? quibbles? suggestions? i'm grateful forall of them. even flamers. im shivering right now, that's how cold it is. oh no! i just used a comma splice! that shoulv'e been a semi-colon... oh well. my grammar in the author's notes always sucks anyway. please review! thanks!**


	21. Etiquette

**A/N: i'm so sorry!! this chappie is uber short and it's a filler, but i felt like i HAD to get something up there!! please forgive me! i'm sorry!!**

"MISS LANEY!!!"

I awoke with a start, opening my bleary eyes to the fuzzy sight of a figure looming above me at the end of my bed. I reacted in the way that any intelligent young woman would. "Huh?? Wha??"

A disapproving maid stood at the foot of the bed, staring down her nose at me. Somehow I had the sense that she would get along splendidly with my tenth grade math teacher. "I suggest you get dressed. Miss Swann has requested that you join her in her chamber for dinner."

"Thank you," I replied automatically, thinking ruefully, _Time to dine with the diet Nazi._

The maid took her leave, and I was faced with a daunting closet full of nothing but corsets and dresses. _Cue ominous music_, I thought to myself. Don't get me wrong—I wore dresses sometimes, but I was (and still am) inherently afraid of them, along with a few other clothing items like mini-skirts, leggings, tube tops, and slinky strapless black dresses.

"Clothing, clothing, clothing, but not a bra to wear," I murmured quietly, standing flamingo style in my chemise and staring at the enormous closet, blinking like a deer in headlights. I did not look forward to living without bras, nor was I all too keen on the idea of having to wear a corset for the rest of my life.

So I ignored the nagging voice at the back of my head that told me Elizabeth would find out if I wasn't wearing a corset, picking up the bra I had been wearing before my fitting and deciding to use _that_ instead. I turned my analytical gaze once more upon my closet, carefully scrutinizing any seemingly negligible detail on every dress.

Finally, after several long minutes of close inspection, a found a dress that met my standards. The neckline was relatively modest, the square collar of what I guessed was a Mantua. The dress was light silk, a prettily faded red color, tight across the chest and billowy from the waist down. There was a small amount of reserved lace near the bottom and the sleeves were three quarter ones. All in all I liked it, even if it was a clothing item genuinely from the 17th century and should have been brought to 2006 to be put in some obscure museum off in the middle of nowhere.

So I slipped on the dress, feeling as though I had stolen it from a museum, and headed off to Elizabeth's room, just barely remembering to put on shoes. My absentmindedness was rather astounding. And then I remembered that I didn't know where Elizabeth's room was. How very characteristic of me.

"Cara whose name is obviously not Cara!" I heard someone stage-whisper from behind me. A door somewhat down the hallway was open a crack, light peeking through from the bottom, and a slender, manicured hand that I recognized as Elizabeth's beckoned. It was slightly creepy seeing Elizabeth's hand poking out from a door, as it looked as if it were detached from the rest of the body, but I bounded over to the room and knocked politely on the door. The door opened all the way and Elizabeth gave what I called her 'publicity' smile, showing several pearly white teeth, which was rather odd as it was the 17th century, but I figured I'd best not ask for diplomacy's sake. "Come in," she said graciously.

"Why thank you," I replied, stepping lightly through the door, which she closed gently behind me. I heard the lock click firmly into place, but did not turn around to check, a feeling of mounting dread rising within me.

The smile on her face instantly disappeared, turning to a berating, narrow-eyed gaze. "You're not wearing a corset."

_Damn, _I thought sourly. "Am I that fat?" I gibed laughingly, grinning and hoping that the answer would be a resounding 'no.'

"No." I sighed in relief at the simple statement. "But it is actually quite noticeable," she commented shrewdly. My face fell.

"Great," I deadpanned flatly. "How do you breathe with that godforsaken thing on?"

Elizabeth flashed me a brilliant, albeit a tad bit sardonic smile. "You don't!"

"You're so helpful," I muttered sarcastically under my breath, rolling my eyes a tiny bit.

She noticed my not-so-ladylike rolling of the eyes. "We'll have to work on that. Anyway, I'm going to teach you the basics of etiquette, and in a day or so we'll have a ball in your honor," she informed me matter-of-factly, and the very thought made me blanch in sheer terror, the blood draining rapidly from my face. She ignored my obvious alarm and said with determined cheerfulness, "Let's begin." She smiled, looking slightly sadistic and rather cat-like. "This should be fun."


	22. The Ball

**A/N: sorry 'bout the wait! here ya' go!**

"So. How would you address the wife of the well-known Commodore Norrington at an evening masquerade party?" Elizabeth asked me, her ornate fan poised like a cobra to strike, hovering menacingly just above my hand. At this point the hand in question was so numb that I just didn't care anymore.

"I wouldn't," I answered obstinately, wincing slightly as that blasted fan hit my poor, now swelling knuckles for the fifty-second time within the span of no more than an hour or two. I know. I counted. "Fine." I glowered for a second and then favored her with my 'brilliant, sunny' smile. "Good evening, Mrs. Norrington. How do you do? Is your esteemed husband back yet from India?" My stomach growled quietly, but was ignored. The maid had said that there would be food. That was obviously just an artifice to bribe me out of the comfort of sleep and the safety of my room.

Elizabeth pursed her lips and smiled tightly in response. "I am doing quite well, Miss Laney whose last name is obviously not Laney. Regrettably, my dear husband has not yet returned," Elizabeth replied primly.

"Well, I do so hope he returns soon; I've heard that the weather in India is absolutely dreadful for the skin this time of year. Most disagreeable. Upon his return please give him my highest regards," I replied just as primly, turning up my fake 'British nobility' accent one notch.

"Indeed I shall, Miss Laney whose last name is obviously not Laney. I thank you for your concern," Elizabeth said, and then dropped the façade. "That's not bad, but I really think you should be presented with a different name."

"Like what? My real one wouldn't work," I told her sourly. _I can see it now—the minute I'm announced rotten cabbages and tomatoes appear out of nowhere on the table and the oh-so-civil audience does not hesitate to throw said rotten food items at me._

She exhaled sharply in exasperation, bringing me out of my thoughts. "What _is_ your real name anyway!?" she exclaimed, not quite angry, just severely annoyed.

"Can't tell, but I'll give you a hint. It's Chinese," I replied.

"Oh, blast you and your hints!" she cried, but she smiled afterward.

I just shrugged.

She gave me a not-so-gentle poke in the ribs with her elbow. I add that Elizabeth's elbow was a rather _sharp_ one. "Come on… you can tell me…" she coaxed sweetly, but I would not yield.

"Nope," I replied firmly.

She scowled, but eventually sighed dramatically and said, "Fine. We'll just make up a new name for you." She paused thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes slightly at me. "How about… Abigail Schofield?"

"Uhh… sure… I don't have a problem with that," I replied, using my mind's often faulty search function to make sure there was no one on my hit list by that name.

"Good. Would you care for some more tea, Miss Schofield?" Elizabeth asked, now posing as the maid, delicately grasping an opulent silver teapot with her slender hands.

I smiled my 'beautiful girl at rest' smile, despite the fact that I was far from beautiful and batted my eyelashes. "I'd be delighted."

It was the evening before my 'coming out debutante' ball. I was screwed.

"It will be a masquerade ball, so everyone will be wearing masks for most of the night. I've already picked out a dress for you; it's lying on the bed in there. _Wear_ the corset this time, won't you? Anyway, don't eat too much; be flirty, but not outrageously so, don't let the gentlemen get too close, and don't forget: the big fork is for the main course, which you will not eat too much of," Elizabeth briefed me quickly, and I was only able to nod dumbly, fleetingly envisioning her with a headset, microphone, and clipboard. I smiled shortly and fled from her commanding presence into my room.

It was just as she said; the dress shone from its place on my bed and I gasped in an odd combination of wonder for the fabric and horror for the revealing neckline. The color was a dark, dramatic blue, deep and rich in tone, and the fabric was a sweetly rustling silk in simple lines. A maid that I recognized suddenly appeared and managed somehow to look down disapprovingly at me despite the fact that I was taller than her. I smiled weakly, thinking, _This is definitely the one that would really get along with my tenth grade math teacher._

"Do you happen to know anything about algebra?" I asked her. She blinked at me several times like I was such an idiot she could barely stand being on the same planet as me; no, worse, the way she stared at me was as if she couldn't even stand being part of the same _race_. "Ah well; guess not," I said, answering my own question, thinking, _Maybe she _is_ a different race. Some kind of alien from Planet 'Bellum' come to sniff disdainfully at me._

She seemed to be waiting for something, raising her eyebrows expectantly and impatiently tapping her foot. She cast a meaningful glance toward the bed.

My gaze followed, landing on the dress and corset, and then back on her. It clicked. "Ah yes. That," I stated, feeling stupid. I had forgotten that 17th century girls were to 'fragile' to dress themselves. I peeled off the outer layer of my clothing, along with a petticoat, leaving me standing in the room wearing nothing but a see-through chemise, cheeks burning in shame.

The maid waited for a good solid twenty minutes, elongating my mortification I suppose, and then picked up the corset whilst I grimaced.

"Turn around and suck it in," she ordered callously, and my responding look was sour, but I complied. It was like a fire in my lungs, and my mouth hung open as I gasped for air, probably looking like a fish. The corset dug painfully into my ribs; I could practically hear the bones crunch, but she just kept pulling, tighter and tighter until I began to feel quite lightheaded. My breath came in short gasps now, and somehow I managed to close my mouth a little so as to look less fish-like, but my head was still reeling. I wanted to rip the damn thing off, but one backward glance at the tight, intricate lacings dispelled any rational thoughts of that. Of course, the lack of rational thought may have stemmed from the small issue of being able to get air to my brain, but at that point I couldn't tell and by breathing very shallowly, I could save myself some pain nearby the ribs, and that is what I did.

I slowly and precariously sidled over to the full-length mirror in the room, breathing carefully. _Damn, I look skinny,_ I thought to myself, and any question as to whether I would wear the corset or not evaporated completely. I rolled my eyes at my own folly, and soon enough the maid was helping me into my dress, and in a swirl of swishing cloth, I was dressed and ready, slipping my feet into a dainty looking pair of what resembled modern stilettos. I nearly fainted from terror (or perhaps from lack of air; the jury's out on that one.) I'd just as likely _stab_ someone with those shoes than actually _wear_ them.

But I did wear them, and the maid was working furiously to keep my hair in a complex design. I could have told her it wouldn't work. My hair was annoyingly straight, and worse: it was long. I could sit there with my hair in a curling iron for days and get no result. The maid was having no better luck, but I shrugged and let her try, perching delicately on the edge of the bed, careful not to fall over, as I would probably not be able to get up. At this moment, Elizabeth barged in, took one look at the maid's failed attempts on my hair, and fell upon my straight hair with vigor, shooing the maid away.

And ten minutes later, the impossible was made possible: my hair was curled. I gaped at her in wonder, watching a fat brown curl bounce jovially out of the corner of my eye. "How did you do that?" I asked.

"I'm special," she told me, simpering. I rolled my eyes. "It's time to go."

It's a wonder that such simple words could strike such terror in my heart. Anyone else would have been a little nervous, but mostly excited. I was not excited at all; for me, it was 78 fear, 22 dread and 6 temporary insanity. 106!! Is that not proof enough of my trepidation?

Before I knew it, I had been whisked down to the ballroom, and my palms were cold and clammy as I stood in front of the throngs of people. The ballroom itself was dazzling, testimony to the opulence of wealth. Everything seemed to shimmer with gold or silver, and the wall sconces lit the room with flickering light. A grand chandelier hung in the middle of the ballroom, gloriously decked out with expensive crystals and gold. _I feel very small,_ I thought to myself, cringing in front of the young nobles.

A herald stepped forward, pitching his voice above the crowd. "Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present the lovely Miss Abigail Schofield." There was a patter of applause, and I was rather unceremoniously dragged down the grand staircase and to the dance floor by Elizabeth (aka Psycho Fitness Barbie ™.) I just smiled and pretended that I could breathe while I was dragged to the dance floor, my itchy, annoying mask firmly in place. Don't ask me how it got there—I couldn't tell you if my life depended on it.

"Good evening, Miss Schofield, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Caspar J. Krow. Would you care to dance?" a young man asked me.

All I could see of his face was two large, almost seductive dark brown eyes, and his lips. _God, he has gorgeous lips. God. So warm and supple looking... _I thought, and then stopped myself, giving him a tight 'nobility' smile and replying, "I'd be delighted." He gave me a rakish grin, which was not at all hard to decipher despite the fact that most of his face was covered, and bowed dramatically, leading me to the center of the floor. The orchestra started up with a version of that god awful Minuet in G that everyone is always playing and I kept myself from gagging, trying to smile instead. It was hard to tell, but somehow I had the sense that the man was amused.

"I take it you are not favorably impressed with this particular rendition of the Minuet in G?" he said mildly, his lips curling into an almost teasing smile.

"Oh… well… I have had… less than pleasant experiences with this particular piece…" I said, but my mind was elsewhere. He executed a complex turn that left me confused, and I raised my eyebrows despite the fact that there was no way he could possibly see them, stepping forward to keep up. My mask itched unbearably, but I didn't dare take it off.

He did not say much for a little while, but the space that had once been present between us was slowly closing. Something brushed against my hip, and I looked down curiously and then very quickly back up. "Are you trying to pick-pocket me?" I asked incredulously, half-laughing. "Just so you know, I don't even have pockets!"

"What gave you the idea that I was trying to pick-pocket you?" he asked, and he seemed on the edge of laughter.

I rolled my eyes without thinking about it, hoping that I wouldn't catch it from Elizabeth later on. "I'm not stupid," I replied. "Really. You were quite obvious about it. Since when does the young nobility pick-pocket?"

"If I told you, it would ruin the enigma, now wouldn't it?" he teased, twirling me at a rather dizzying rate. He leaned in close, too close for propriety's sake in fact, and I could feel his hot breath on my lips. "And that would be no fun at all." He pulled back.

"I suppose. But I do find it rather annoying," I replied, adding, "Among other numerous things…"

"What things?" He seemed to be laughing at me.

"Oh, I don't know…" I waited, and then finally said the first thing that came to mind. "Double standards in The Odyssey. Penelope in particular… all that woman does is cry!"

Something dangerous that looked slightly like a revelation flared behind his eyes and his lips curled once more into a wicked smile as he said mildly, "Ah, so you've read The Odyssey then… intriguing…"

I assumed that the last comment was referring to the book. "No, not really. I thought it was dull," I said, and frowned when he smiled knowingly. But I could not press the matter, for the music stopped.

"Well, it has been a pleasure talking with you Miss Schofield. I hope to see you later perhaps?" he said, stepping away, his hands languidly at his sides.

"The pleasure was all mine Mr. Krow. Maybe I _will_ see you later, who knows?" I replied, smiling cryptically and raising my eyebrows again before I realized that he couldn't see them. _There is something oddly familiar... _I shook myself mentally. _Here I go again, imagining things. It's not like I already know him. I don't know anyone by the name of Krow! _Indeed I didn't. But maybe I wasn't the only one with a fake name. Never can tell.

**A/N: Bellum means war in latin, just in case anyone was wondering what the "Planet Bellum" thing was... **

**as always, please review:)**


	23. When Things Go Wrong

**A/N: enjoy!**

After my dance with the mysteriously familiar Mr. Krow, I discreetly made my way over to the fichus in the room, whipping off my annoyingly prickly mask and hiding it as surreptitiously as possible within its leaves, pushing it into the dirt. I smiled innocuously, hands behind my back as a gentleman walked by and then sighed in relief when he left without comment.

Another young man—not nearly as handsome, might I add—asked for a dance and I consented, despite the fact that my feet were already throbbing painfully. The conversation was dull. Here it is verbatim, but you might fall asleep or go into a coma. You have been warned.

"You look lovely," he said.

"Thank you," I replied, thinking, _You must really be desperate._

"What do you like to do in your free time?"

_Oh, nothing much; Use sarcasm to make fun of people like you, look up vocab words, burn copies of The Odyssey, travel through time, emaciate my math binder, bash movie characters, burn corsets, watch POTC, quote POTC, obsess over POTC, did I mention that I like POTC?_

"Oh, nothing much. Watch sunsets, practice embroidering on cotton, shop for dresses, practice embroidering on silk, smell roses, practice embroidering on velvet, dance… did I mention that I like embroidery?" I said, batting my eyelashes and looking up at him adoringly. "What do _you_ do?"

"Go on hunts…" He trailed off. "That's most of it."

"Oh, that's ever so _manly_ of you," I purred coquettishly, simpering in a disgustingly insipid way, batting my eyelashes again for good measure

He blushed. "Why thank you. You're quite nice."

_Nice is a girl-scout word,_ I thought sourly, _a word that people use when they can't think of anything better to say,_ but I only said, "No, not really. I'm not that nice at all." How very truthful of me to say. I smiled my 'charming' smile.

Finally, the dance ended, and I headed back to the center of the floor and was immediately surrounded by young men. _Wow. They must think I'm rich or something, _I thought to myself. A blonde man wearing a very tasteful outfit pushed his way to the front of my small crowd, a knowing smile adorning his face for the barest of moments before being smoothly replaced with a congenial, urbane smile. "Good evening Miss Schofield. Would you favor me with this dance?"

_Don't think that escaped my notice, Mister Whoever-you-are, _I thought, feeling suspicious. But I was starting to feel claustrophobic and slightly antisocial, so I accepted. "Certainly," I replied, desperate to get away from the people. He smiled graciously and led me away while the orchestra started up a lively minuet that I knew quite well.

As we began to dance, he stated, "You're not wearing a mask."

"Indeed I am not," I said firmly. "It was very annoying, and so I disposed of it within the fichus over there." My tone was very matter-of-fact.

He laughed, much to my surprise. "I would do the same, but I'm afraid you are much braver than I."

Again, I could only see his eyes and lips. _Blast_. I smiled insincerely, responding, "Not really. Elizabeth will find out. I quiver in fear of what she might do to me.

He smiled, but it looked just as disingenuous as my own smile previously did. _Of course I don't _really_ know because of that blasted mask. Stupid mask._ "Hmm…" he said, sending what I surmised was supposed to be a discreet glance to the orchestra. They instantly resolved the chord they had been playing and ended the piece. They were two pages early. I almost frowned, but stopped myself just in time.

"Well, it has been a pleasure dancing with you, Miss Schofield," he said, drawing back and looking altogether too pleased with himself, something dangerously like gloating victory flaring at the back of his eyes. The gloating look evaporated within seconds and he smiled politely.

"The pleasure is all mine; I'm sure," I lied easily, simpering, the gears in my head beginning to turn as he took his leave. _He never told me his name..._ I realized, thinking furiously. _Perhaps that means I know him and he didn't want me to recognize him..._ I shook myself. _When did I get so suspicious? If I keep this up I'll turn into Gibbs!_

It was time for the eating aspect of the ball, which, for me at least, would involve nothing even remotely like eating. I did not look forward to sitting and watching everyone stuff food into their gobs while I was forced to try not to salivate too badly and say polite things like, 'I couldn't even _think_ of food at this hour! You go ahead and eat, I'll just have a nice carrot stick,' and 'Really, there's so much here! I'm quite full.'

It was quite a spread, setting me straight to drooling and trying not to faint from desire. I could just imagine myself falling unceremoniously from my chair with a groan, murmuring faintly and dramatically, 'chocolate—I want chocolate,' and then losing consciousness. As I imagined this, I decided, _I probably ought not to be thinking about chocolate._ I tried to breathe, leaving my hands in my lap and sitting a little straighter as the corset dug into my ribs. The first course was a strange little bundle of something that I did not recognize, a sort of teaser trailer for the meal. I took a small, polite bite of the hors d'oeuvre, deciding that it tasted a lot like sashimi and I could probably do without it.

The second course was the soup course, and I was faced with a rather difficult choice, as there were three different spoons there for my use. Don't ask me why, I couldn't tell you. I tried to look around discreetly to garner what spoon to use (as far as I know, no one noticed my glances), and was successful as each person picked up the spoon to the left of a knife, and to the right of a miniature fork whose purpose was probably extremely obscure. I tried my best to be dainty, took one sip of the soup, and then it was taken away. I ached with hunger, especially since it was a _good_ soup—so good it ought to have been a sin—a blend of puréed squashes and liberal amounts of heavy cream. I just barely stopped myself from groaning as it was whisked out of sight.

Next came a heaping plate of beef, covered in rich red wine gravy and sautéed mushrooms, dripping in its own succulent red wine reduction. What was I supposed to do to keep from eating it? Pretend I was vegetarian? How very far from the truth. So I did not tell them I was vegetarian. Instead, I took a slab of beef and placed it on my clean plate, sliding some mushrooms on along with it. Delicious-smelling steam rose from the meat and any little resolve I'd had to eat with impeccable decorum wavered. But before I could start in on it, Elizabeth stood, daintily tapping one of the three glasses with one of the three forks. I just barely kept from glaring at her. She smiled benevolently at me, raising her glass.

"If I may have a moment," she said. _No you may not,_ I answered sourly in my head, but the chatter around stopped and Elizabeth smiled once more with some triumph. "Ladies and gentlemen. As you know, this ball is being held in the honor of my dear friend Abigail. Abigail has always been a—" She paused, probably looking for something more diplomatic than 'maddening.' I almost rolled my eyes, but stopped myself just in time. "—A lively, spirited girl, ever since I met her. She's almost never at a loss of words—she's quite the wit." She gave me a rueful glance, which I returned with a slight grin and a tilt of the head. "But she is also the most kind-hearted woman I know. Dear Abigail has helped me in my own struggles, and I thank her for that. I can only hope that all of you will see in her the fabulous character traits that _I_ see in her."

With that, she was finished, and sat down amongst a patter of polite applause. It was then that the well-dressed man I'd danced with earlier stood. My eyes narrowed a bit, but otherwise my courteous smile was still firmly in place. "While we're still making speeches, I have a few things to say about this woman," he said, smiling belligerently. His voice seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it. "Not all of them are positive." His smile was gentler now, and he looked directly at me. I felt the blood drain rapidly from my face, eyes going wide with terror. _Dorian._

"Miss… Schofield—I believe that is what you're calling yourself now?" He smiled again. "Well, Miss _Laney_," he addressed me, tipping his glass towards me. "There are some things I'd like to know. How does it feel, engaging in piracy?" There was a collective gasp around the room. "Please ladies, gentlemen. I've much more to say." The slight smile disappeared, and his expression was now an ugly one of hatred. "Miss _Cara_ _Laney_ is no better than a common strumpet; an instrument of the devil. She is a slut, pirate, and whore. A common lowlife. A prostitute," he said with a sneer. _Slut, whore and prostitute are all the same thing dimwit, _I wanted to say, but I couldn't. It certainly would not remedy the situation.

I was frantic now, as was Elizabeth. We were both standing, explaining it all away, or trying at least. But the seed of doubt had been planted. "Please folks; it's not true! I am still a virgin, and have done nothing to change that! I don't _want_ to change that—not until I'm properly married! I'm not a whore!" I cried desperately.

"Here, here," a young man spoke up, voice shaking. It was the boring man I had danced with earlier. _Thank you,_ I thought. "Miss Schofield has been nothing but polite to all of us. In fact, she's been quite congenial. You haven't any evidence that this woman is anything but what she says she is!" There was a wave of agreeing murmurs.

"You want proof?" His smile returned, hostile and feral. It was a smile of gloating triumph. "I'll give you proof." He whipped out a small piece of clothing that I knew all too well. I paled further, shaking all over. "_This_ is what she was wearing! I saw her wearing it!" There was another collective gasp.

I'd had enough—my feet were too cramped, the corset was too tight, my neckline was too low, I was hungry, everything was too awkward, and I couldn't remember what fork to use. And on top of all that, this? I couldn't handle it. All eyes were on me. A lump grew in my throat. "Well, you all suck anyway!" I shouted tearfully, liquid welling up in my eyes and blurring my vision. The images and colors slid in and out of each other, each one washed out and indistinct. I threw down a fork angrily, on the brink of tears, and it made a large resounding **_CLUNK _**sound before clattering loudly to the floor, echoing in the silence. "I hate you, Dorian!" I blubbered, and with that, I flung down my starched linen napkin and ran out of the room, holding back tears all the way. It was only after I was out of sight that I burst into tears, stuffing my hand in my mouth to muffle my high, keening cries.

**A/N: surprise, surprise! who knew? as always, please review!**


	24. Ha, Now I Know Your Last Name

**A/N: this chapter gave me issues. i apologize ahead of time for its lack of eloquence. the translations for the chinese are in parenthesis. i hope you like it! sorry for the wait! ideas for plot would be helpful... i'll give you a virtual pie! please? **

**anyway, enjoy!**

I couldn't see anything. I didn't realize that I was soaking the front of my dress. All I was conscious of was the wetness of my tears, my shaky breathing, and the jumble of confused thoughts running pell-mell through my head.

_I hate it, hate it all, hate it; wanna go home, please God, please. I wanna go home; there's nothing I want more, home, no place like home, no ruby slippers, only home. Falling... falling... I'm falling... please God... please... please... someone..._

_Brother; I have a brother; my brother... where? Where is he? Brother... wish he was here... falling... still falling... with no one to catch me... no one's there... no one..._

And then I opened my eyes. "I'm here Emily... I'm here," he said. I could've cried. It was Tim—right in front of my eyes in all of his brotherly glory, that endearing, familiar mop of brown hair just as messy as usual, his brown eyes kind like they always were. He held my firmly by the shoulders, giving me what I recognized as his 'snap out of it, Emily' look.

"Tim," I blubbered, tears running down my face as I latched around him. "I missed you so much!"

"Sorry to ruin your moment, Emily, but where exactly are we?" he asked, getting straight to business. Good ole' Tim.

"Port Royal," I replied. He raised his eyebrows, and I laughed shakily. "It's true. Look around."

"This has got to be some kind of reality show," he said, gaping at the surroundings and my dress.

"Nope."

"你 是 狂 人 (You're a lunatic)," he teased laughingly, and I half laughed half cried at the sound of the Chinese language I loved so much coming from someone else's lips.

"对! 可 是， 我 只 是 狂 人。 你 不 但 是 狂 人 ，而 且 是 笨 蛋! (True, but I'm only a lunatic. You are not only a lunatic, but also an idiot!)" I exclaimed, happy to converse in my second language with my older brother.

He stared at me for a few minutes. "That dress belongs in a museum," he finally said, and looked surprised when I laughed out-loud.

"My thoughts exactly!" I cried. Elizabeth was suddenly standing beside me.

"Who are you, sir?" she asked my brother, bristling.

He brought himself up to his full height (which is actually quite tall, might I add). He looked very intimidating, complete with his swimmer's build and serious gaze. "My name is Tim Cheng. And you are?"

She met his gaze squarely. "Elizabeth Swann. The governor's daughter," she replied, her gaze stony.

"Elizabeth," I said. "That's my _brother_."

She looked taken aback. "Oh," she murmured quietly. "Well. It's nice to meet you." She turned to me. "Ha," she said smugly. "Now I know your last name." I just rolled my eyes at her.

Tim looked amused. "You've been using a false name?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. And you should've done the same," I stated, shaking my finger at him.

"Too late now," he said, grinning. The grin faded slightly into a more thoughtful look. "So you're Elizabeth Swann…" he said, scrutinizing her. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and led me out of Elizabeth's hearing range. "Is this before the first movie or after? Or in between? Or after the second movie? Or before it?" Now he looked confused. He shook himself while I laughed at him. He scowled. "You know what I mean."

"I'm pretty sure this is after the first movie, but before the second," I replied.

"Good to know," he commented, and I could tell that he was processing this information, storing it for later use.

At this moment, Jack skidded out of the ballroom, coming to a halt in front of me. "Jack?! When did you get here??"

"Caspar J. Krow, at your service," he replied cheekily.

I gaped for a solid minute, gawking at him. "Damn! Hell, no! How the Hell did I not notice that?"

Jack squinted at my brother, scrutinizing Tim's features from about a scant centimeter away. Tim backed away slightly, raising his eyebrows quizzically. Jack jumped back to me. "Who's your friend?" he asked, eyeing Tim askance, suspicious.

"He's no friend—that's my brother!" I said. "Jack, meet Tim Cheng. Tim, meet Jack Sparrow."

"That's Captain Jack Sparrow," he corrected me absently, examining Tim once more as they reluctantly shook hands. "I suppose I see the resemblance." He seemed to come to a realization. He turned on me with a smug look. "So your last name's Cheng, then."

I scowled, and nearly got bowled over by Will. "Have some courtesy," I reprimanded tartly.

"No, _you_ have some courtesy," he countered at once. At my expectantly raised eyebrow, he continued. "You have not introduced me to your friend."

"Ah yes. That," I said dryly. "Will, meet my brother, Tim Cheng. Tim, meet Will Turner," I deadpanned mechanically.

"So _that's_ your last name," he remarked, looking very pleased with himself indeed.

"For God's sake, stop harping on that!" I cried, ready to kill somebody with the oh-so-civil dinner utensils.

"Nice to meet you all," Tim said, ignoring my violent comment and looking dubiously at everyone. "But my sister and I have some things to talk about…" he said, dragging me away all the while.

"How did _you_ get here?" he asked me.

"I have reason to believe that some being called the 'nameless wanderer' has brought me here. Every once in a while I black out, or fall asleep, and find myself here. Okay, so it's only happened twice… whatever," I told him.

"I was just leaving swim practice to go to a cappella group, but then I couldn't see or hear anything for a moment, and I ended up here, watching you sob while wearing a dress that belongs in a museum. At least it could've happened _after_ practice. _That's_ what I call inconsiderate."

"So, does that mean your brother's a eunuch Cara whose name is not Cara?" Jack was suddenly by my side, grinning demonically. "After all, he just said that he sings…"

"He has a lovely voice," I said, adding firmly, "but he's not a eunuch. Eunuchs are not baritones." Jack shrugged, but said nothing, so I decided to rant a little. "And besides, it's none of your business anyway. You shouldn't even _be_ here. This is a _private_ conversation which you should _not_ be eavesdropping on because it is _private_. In short; sod off for a minute, won't ya'?"

"How would I learn anything if I didn't eavesdrop?" he asked, a roguish smile on his face, as always.

I considered that for a moment. "You have a point there," I admitted. "Fine. Eavesdrop out of view at least."

He smiled very smugly, and I had an itch to slap the smirk off of his face, but denied myself the pleasure with a slight sigh. "Go on now, shoo!" I said, making motions with my hands.

He disappeared behind a fichus (_What is it with these people and the fichus?,_ I thought), and we resumed our conversation, moving over a bit in a halfhearted attempt to foil Jack's eavesdropping.

"We have to get back," Tim said intensely, looking me dead in the eye with such a close gaze that I squirmed in discomfort.

"Why?" I asked defensively of him. "It's not that bad."

"It's rather… primitive," he replied diplomatically. "We just don't belong here."

"Well… I don't know… I just… am happier here," I told him.

"Really," he said dryly. "Is that because you don't have homework by any chance?"

I glowered. "There are other things too," I defended myself. "Like… freedom…"

"It's just not right. We're from 2006. Not… whatever the year is here. We have information that could damage the timeline!" he protested.

"I suppose you're right…" I sighed. "But I'm going to bed," I added crossly, glowering and crossing my arms.

"Oh, speaking of that. I have to sleep somewhere too," he reminded me.

"Go ask Elizabeth. It's not _my_ house for God's sake," I said callously, stomping off to my room where I wearily changed into a shift, falling once again into grateful sleep.


	25. Elation

**A/N: sorry 'bout the wait. enjoy! i love this chapter. it makes me feel all warm at the end... or that could be the heater that i just had installed... whatever. translations to the Chinese are in parenthesis. as always, please enjoy, and please review!**

I didn't feel much better in the morning—it was a different kind of feeling, more of a dull, throbbing ache, but it was awful nonetheless. _I blame the barometric pressure,_ I thought to myself, looking out the window at the ominous clouds. "Just rain already!" I shouted at them, looking and feeling like a madwoman, but not caring.

I sighed, and then spotted another dress along with a corset (aka a horrible painful death contraption for anyone who happens to have asthma) lying on a chair, waiting for me. I scowled, disdainfully looking down my nose at it. I turned away from the Horrible Painful Death Contraption ™ (side affects include… death… what did you expect? Liver disease?) and I threw open the closet doors, searching earnestly for a familiar blue fabric…

"Yes! My jeans!" I danced my awful victory dance, making sure that no one was watching first, and slipped the jeans on, loving the way that they fit snugly on my figure, hugging my waist; just tight enough. In no time, I found my bra from earlier, and my Life is Good ™ shirt. I felt slightly like crying, but just barely stopped myself, putting all of my old clothes on and feeling triumphant.

My head ached terribly, but at least I wouldn't have to deal with the dearth of air to the brain that I'd been forced to deal with for the past few days. _Actually, come to think of it, maybe that's why I had a headache in the first place, _I thought, but then I shrugged.

Soon after, Elizabeth had seized my hand and was dragging me to her room to talk about something that I surmised was quite urgent from the way she was practically pulling my arm out of my socket. "Luckily for you, you acted just insipid enough at the ball that no one believed what Dorian said," she whispered. "But there are rumors going around that you are a very strange girl." She eyed my jeans and t-shirt dubiously. "I can see why," she added dryly. "Go change into the dress I laid out for you."

"But Elizabeth…" I whined, feeling childish. "My head hurts… and the corset will only make it worse…"

"I'm sure you'll be fine. Go change before we have any callers," she ordered, pointing to my room.

"Fine," I huffed, pouting. _Now I know what Tim was talking about... they don't have Advil!_ I thought, but I complied, changing and having to breathe shallowly, feeling instantly faint. "Stupid corset," I muttered darkly to myself.

I managed to plaster a smile on my face, coming out of the room and trying for grace. Elizabeth gave me the serene smile of a queen watching over her court, and said in low tones to me, "We'll be receiving a Mr. Richard Carlton in the parlor. Remember; you are still Abigail Schofield."

"Alright," I consented, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. And with that we descended the grand staircase and made our way to the parlor, where we waited for our visitor to enter.

"Mr. Richard Carlton," the butler announced, and I couldn't help but gape at the tall, dark haired man that walked in. It was the stranger who had called me out on my dropping of eaves next to the blacksmith's several days ago. He was rather good looking. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to smile and hoping that he didn't know me as Cara Laney. I stood and curtsied, as did Elizabeth, and he removed his hat.

"Good day, Mr. Carlton. Would you care to have a seat?" I suggested politely.

"No thank you. This shouldn't take long," he said briskly. He raised an amused eyebrow, a slight smile on his angular face. "I've come to see if the rumors are true. Are they?"

"Well, I'm afraid that depends entirely on which rumors you are talking about, Mr. Carlton," I replied coolly, sitting and smiling ambiguously with my hands laced primly in my lap.

"The first is that you are a demon from Hell that's come to eat all of our souls and sell us into slavery," he said mildly. He stepped forward and examined me, scrutinizing my features while I looked innocuous as possible, trying not to squirm under his intense blue-eyed gaze.

He stepped back, smiling dryly. "I doubt that. The second is that you are not a noble lady, but a peasant from the streets." He paused to look at me once again. "I doubt this also. And the third—the most absurd if you ask me—is that you went slightly insane on a deserted island."

I swallowed extra hard at the last and was immediately set to sputtering in indignation. "Well, I never," I said weakly, trying for a suitably offended tone and failing miserably.

"Of course not. What will they be saying next? That you're from the future?" He laughed, and I tried to laugh along with him, ending up with a strained sort of barely audible laughter as I thought, _Oh God..._

"I do admit it's odd that you were eavesdropping outside of the blacksmith's shop," he said, and I scowled slightly until Elizabeth nudged me with her rather sharp elbow in the side. "But everyone has their odd points."

"Indeed," I agreed shakily, giving a guarded smile. _Just smile and nod, _I thought to myself, following my own advice.

"Yes, well, that's all. Good day, Miss Schofield." He respectfully inclined his head towards me. "Miss Swann." He tipped his hat to the both of us, and with that he was gone, disappearing with the click of a boot heel and the elegant swish of a cape.

_Wow..._

"Emily? Emily?? Emily!"

"Wha? Huh?" I said, coming out of my stupor.

"Quit daydreaming about Romeo, Juliet! We haven't got the time for that," she cried, grabbing my hand and dragging me rather painfully up the stairs.

"Why? What do we have to do?" My eyes narrowed. "And I was _not_ daydreaming about _anyone_ like that. Least of all Mr. Carlton."

"Attend a dancing party, present your brother, and formally oppose all that Dorian has said about you. And yes, you _were_ daydreaming about Mr. Carlton like that." She sent me a knowing smile that was really more of a borderline smirk. "Don't worry, Juliet," she teased. "He'll be there."

"I do _not_ like Mr. Carlton," I muttered inaudibly, following her to her room, where we began the day's preparation.

* * *

"It hurts—ouch—like mad! What exactly—ow-ey, ow-ey, ow-ey—are you doing to me?" I asked, intermittently wincing and grimacing in pain when she tugged particularly hard, sending shooting little pains through my poor, abused scalp. _Is there a 'scalp abuse hotline'? _I wondered.

"Beauty knows no pain!" Elizabeth sang out gleefully. She cackled a little evilly and gave an extra hard pull at my hair.

"Elizabeth!" I chastised, "Do me the common courtesy of _not_ _pulling all my hair out!!_"

"I'm not pulling your hair _out_, I'm pulling your hair _into a style_. Two very different things, Juliet!" she cried merrily.

"Don't call me Juliet!" _It's definitely getting old, Elizabeth, cut it out!_

"Fine, but to make up for my loss, I'll just have to tug your hair harder," she said, grinning malevolently.

"Sometimes I think you're a sadist," I grumbled, crossing my arms.

"Yes, yes, joyously so!" She stopped speaking for a moment to wrestle with a particularly stubborn knot. "There," she said with a final twist, "Your hair is done!"

I sighed. "Good. You don't know how happy that statement makes me," I said, not bothering to conceal my intense relief.

"Now we can get started on the _really_ painful stuff," Elizabeth said, and then smiled sweetly as I gaped at her. A moment later, she rolled her eyes at my fish-like expression. "I'm kidding. You're just about finished."

She gave one last flourish with a makeup brush, spreading a skin colored cream over my nose, and then she stepped back, replacing the brush in its case. "Tada! The new you!" she exclaimed, pulling me to a standing position and turning me so that I faced the mirror.

I stared at my reflection for a moment. A pretty girl stared back. I couldn't see myself in it at all—_what happened to the nerdy girl who didn't care about fashion?_ I thought. Elizabeth handed me a shawl. "Look, it has pockets…" she said, slipping a book into one of the pockets as she arranged the shawl about my shoulders.

I glanced at the cover. Romeo and Juliet. I smiled at her slightly, rolling my eyes and avoiding my foreign-feeling reflection in the mirror, sighing a bit in the way that friends do when they're thinking, _I should've known you would do that._ "What's in a name?" I murmured softly. "That which we call a rose would smell as sweet by any other word. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called," I recited, looking thoughtfully into the distance at some unknown point, as I'd seen actors do.

"See. You know your lines," she quipped. She grinned at me for a moment, but then let it fade into a more appropriate, tranquil smile. "We'd best be going. There's a carriage waiting outside."

I smiled back, and together we headed to the carriage. Tim was waiting there already, and I slid into the seat next to him while Elizabeth seated herself across from us. I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. "Time for a crash course in 17th century etiquette," I said, grinning belligerently at my brother. "Elizabeth, take it away."

"It's a good thing it's a while to the Carltons' house," Elizabeth commented dryly.

I blinked. "What? It's at the Carltons' house? Is _that_ why he wanted to know if the rumors were true?" I asked.

Infuriatingly as ever, Elizabeth said nothing, launching into her protocol lecture, and leaving me free to let my mind wander.

_Do I like Mr. Carlton? _I asked myself, tuning out the sound of Elizabeth's rant on which fork is the correct fork. It wouldn't matter for him anyway, as the party would consist of only dancing—no food, but I decided not to mention it. For me, it hadn't really mattered either, because ladies aren't supposed to eat. _It seems that society would rather have us starve politely to death than gain a pound that might set off our 'delicate figures.' _

I returned to my musings on Mr. Carlton. _He's rather strange himself. And he wasn't altogether too friendly when I met him... Ah well. Perhaps he's changed his mind. He does seem to find me intriguing now, instead of... dirt-like. I hope he doesn't find out that I actually am from the future. Any trust there would totally fly out the window. _

I absently pulled out Romeo and Juliet from my pocket and began to read. It was going to be a long trip of clattering around in a box on wheels, so I figured I might as well spend it in the company of my good (but dead) friend, Shakespeare. I started at Act 3, and by the time we got there, I had reached Scene 3 of Act 5, just a few lines before Romeo dies.

"Here's to my love (drinking) O true apothecary,/ thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. (he dies),"I read silently. _Romeo was one depressing guy, _I thought.

"Come on, Juliet," Elizabeth teased gaily, but I felt the blood drain from my face as I closed the book.

"Please don't call me that. Juliet dies. So does Romeo. And Mercutio. And Tybalt. Did I miss anyone? Oh yes. Paris, I believe." I felt rather dead saying it, but it was true. And calling me Juliet was almost like _wishing_ it to happen. I shuddered at the thought.

"Emily… are you alright?" Tim was speaking now, looking concerned. He took the book from my shaking hands and placed it underneath the seat. "It's fiction, Emily. Just fiction."

"Is this not fiction? Me as Abigail Schofield and you as Timothy Schofield…" I let the silence hang in the air for a few seconds. "It sounds like fiction to me," I said, feeling as though there were too many uncanny similarities between the characters.

"There's no feuding family issue, so why worry? If you wanted to marry him, you could. No one would stop you. Save for him, perhaps," Elizabeth reasoned.

I nodded slowly, regaining my sense of confidence. "Yeah… that makes sense. Yeah." I gave a brief smile. "Okay." And so, we entered the house of the Carlton's, putting the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet out of our minds and holding our heads high, ready to make a notable impression.

* * *

"Good evening, Mr. Carlton." I shook his hand with a polite smile, and then remembered that I should've curtsied. _Damn,_ I thought, performing a rather haphazard curtsy, wearing a rather ridiculous smile on my face. Not a great start to the night.

He curled his lips into a cat-like smile, looking as though he was trying very hard not to laugh. "Good evening, Miss Schofield." He bowed urbanely, a suave smile on his face.

"You look well," I commented politely. I cleared my throat uncomfortably, not sure of what to do next.

After an excruciatingly awkward moment of silence, he finally spoke up. "Would you like to dance?" he asked, and I faintly picked out the distant strains of an orchestra.

"Certainly," I replied with relief, happy that I was now in a situation where I knew what to do. And with no further banter, we jumped into a fast waltz, and I dizzily wondered what baroque composer wrote waltzes; I had always been taught that baroque dances were minuets; but I couldn't concentrate on the music much further than that—I was too busy trying not to trip over my feet or step on his.

The waltz slowed a bit, and I bit back a sigh of relief, finally able to look up at Mr. Carlton. "So… what do you like to do?" I asked.

"I like to read… and my mother told me to tell everyone that I like to hunt." He grimaced, wrinkling his nose slightly in distaste. "However, I don't exactly feel it's moral to lie, so don't tell her I said this, but I loathe hunts." He executed a complex turn that I had some trouble following, but somehow was able to maneuver. "I also loathe insipid conversation," he added, and he was about to continue, but I interrupted.

"Well I like that! Fine. We shall not have insipid conversation," I said. He turned again, and I followed easily without even thinking about it. "Which do you suppose is more powerful, fear or hope? And why?"

His eyes lit up with the challenge and he grinned. "Inspired subject change indeed, Miss Schofield. Congratulations. You have surprised me." He paused for the barest of moments, but I jumped in before he could continue.

"Oh, is it that you assume women are only capable of making insipid conversation? What would you say if I told you that the country is being ruled by women at this very moment?" I asked, raising my eyebrows at him.

"I would say that's a preposterous notion!" he exclaimed laughingly, turning once more. Uncannily, I had no trouble following him.

"But it's a highly probable theory! Who controls you the most? Your mother. Who controls your father the most? Your mother. Who will eventually control you even more? Your wife! Therefore, who controls the king the most? The queen!" I exulted, feeling giddy.

"On the contrary," he rebutted. "In this day in age, women are belittled. The men control them. I hope that when I am married (hopefully soon), we'll share the power, but in most marriages, it's not that way at all."

"Men are just jealous of women because without us there would be no humans at all," I said smugly. "We let them think they're better out of pity."

"Really? Well, I have to say, Miss Schofield. I am the superior of the two of us when it comes to dancing," he gibed, his blue eyes bright with laughter.

"This is true," I reasoned. "However, I have reason to believe that I am more intelligent than you."

"Well you're certainly not lacking in modesty," he said sarcastically.

"Thank you. And you're as sarcastic as they come. At least _I_ am creative," I drawled, using my stuffiest tone.

"If you were creative, you wouldn't be wearing the same style gown that everyone else is wearing," he pointed out, smirking a tiny bit.

"If I wasn't wearing the same style gown that everyone else is wearing, I'd probably be dead," I replied gaily. I amended my statement. "Or at least gagged, bound and stuffed into a musty broom closet somewhere in Miss Swann's lovely home."

"I've lost the battle of wits!" he cried, feigning some mortal wound. "Pray good woman, do not run me through!"

I laughed. "Very well; I shall let you live, so long as you become my slave for the rest of eternity."

"I'm afraid I cannot consent to that," he replied. His look turned insufferably smug. "I'm too smart to be a slave."

"Don't be silly; _that's_ not the problem. You're just too _conceited_ to be a slave," I corrected, allowing myself the tiniest of smirks.

"Quite so," he agreed. The waltz ended. "I suppose we'll have to call it a draw."

"A draw!? I won, fair and square," I cried indignantly.

"I would continue this battle of wits with you, but you seem to be unarmed," he said, guiding me off of the dance floor.

I gave him my most affronted look. "I'm sure you do not mean what I _think_ you mean," I said diplomatically.

"That depends on what you think I mean," he replied, tilting his head to one side.

"I think you know very well what I think you mean," I said with a foreboding look on my face, my tone that of warning.

"I think you think about what I think you think too much," he informed me, grinning slightly.

"I'm not going to try to translate that into normal English," I commented dryly.

"Wise choice."

I spotted my brother, watching me, looking displeased. I gave him a questioning glance, but the look vanished, covered by an artful veneer of courtesy. I shrugged. "It's Tim!" I turned to Mr. Carlton. "Have you met my brother?"

"Indeed," he replied, his voice suddenly turning icy as the two of them wholly ignored me and glared at each other in what seemed to be a sort of 'who looks more homicidal towards the other' stare down.

I raised my eyebrows at the two of them. "Is there a problem gentlemen?" I queried mildly. I crossed my arms over my chest, leaning back a bit and looking expectantly from one to the other.

"It's nothing," Tim said offhandedly, giving a smile that looked distinctly forced. "Emily, may I speak with you for a moment?" He didn't give me the chance to answer, saying, "Good," and grabbing my arm. He smiled at Mr. Carlton, but the smile fell as he steered me away to the nearest secluded fichus. "我不喜欢他, (I don't like him)," he told me darkly.

"为什么？(why?)," I asked, looking up at him with shock. "大家都喜欢你；你老是也喜欢他们。(Everybody likes you; you always like them too.)"

"可是他不喜欢我, (He doesn't like me,)" Tim protested.

"如果你说，(If you say so,)" I said dubiously.

"You have a Taiwanese accent when you speak Chinese."

I raised my eyebrows incredulously. "What? How is that relevant to the conversation?"

"I just noticed it, that's all."

"Well you speak like you're from Beijing," I countered easily, sticking my tongue out cheekily at him. "So there."

I was immediately whisked away by Elizabeth, and for the rest of the night I felt like a serene goddess, calmly watching over her kingdom. I was floating on the clouds, engulfed in a figurative puff of rose-colored mist as I sampled for the first time the fragrant nectar and ambrosia of the gods. I am convinced that nectar and ambrosia are synonymous to effortless popularity and shallow contentment.

On second thought, the glass of champagne probably helped a little too. _I'm probably going to be an alcoholic by the end of the night,_ I thought to myself, smiling ruefully as I was handed another glass of the bubbly alcoholic beverage. I found it to be slightly bitter, but forced a smile anyway and took a small sip before leaving it 'by mistake' on the refreshment table.

"May I take this dance, Miss Schofield?" It was Richard, extending his slender hand to me, his cheeks slightly flushed presumably from his own small consumption of champagne.

"Why of course, Mr. Carlton," I replied graciously, abandoning my champagne glass and allowing him to lead me to a spot near the orchestra, where I began an examination of his eyes. I mused that they were a truly beautiful color of blue, like that of the sky on a fair day, and they radiated an utterly entrancing giddiness that I'm sure was reciprocated in me.

A lock of dark hair fell in front of his face, and before I could stop myself, my hand was up near his face, gently brushing the piece of hair away from his face. Immediately after, I snatched my hand down, feeling the hot rush of blood to my cheeks as I looked down at the floor in shame, gazing at my moving feet as we continued to waltz. I still wasn't sure what baroque composers wrote waltzes, but at that point I was far beyond caring.

I felt this feeling of happiness well up inside me like no feeling I had ever felt before, making my breath catch in my throat as my eyes prickled with a warning of tears. _Why would I be crying?_ I wondered incredulously, _tears of gladness?_ I blinked any tears away, smiling and looking up at him, feeling shy. _What the Hell is happening to me? Since when have I ever felt shy in situations like this?_

He smiled back and at that moment, a sensation of complete understanding and mutual agreement passed between us, and the rest of the waltz was danced gracefully in an affable, comfortable silence.

_How could anything go wrong? _I was filled with elation to my very brim. And I loved it.


	26. filler

**A/N: short chappie, apologies. enjoy!**

"Tim! Isn't this just glorious?" I was undeniably tipsy, having had one or two glasses of champagne, and I was having the time of my life.

"I suppose…" Tim did not look so happy, and I squinted at him for a moment, trying to decipher why.

It hit me. "Aha!" I exclaimed. "I know what the problem is! You obviously haven't had any champagne! Come!" I grabbed his hand and dragged him unceremoniously to the refreshments, grinning foolishly.

He smiled gently at me, plucking his hand from my tight grip. "I don't think champagne will solve the problem, but thanks anyway."

I squinted at him once more. "You're certain?" I didn't give him the chance to answer, however, saying, "You're just not being sociable!"

"That's probably true."

"Well try to be sociable! I'm the antisocial one, not you!"

He smiled slightly at that. "I'm glad you're having a good time at least. I don't suppose I'm allowed to leave?"

"Of course not, silly." I spotted Richard diagonal from me on the other side of the table. "Hello, Mr. Carlton." I staggered closer to him, inadvertently dragging Tim with me. I beamed brightly at Richard, leaning slightly on the table.

"Would you like me to escort you home Miss Schofield?" Richard asked, looking at my drooping form with concern. No doubt he was wondering how exactly I had managed to get so drunk from only a couple of glasses of champagne.

Tim cut in before I could speak, saying smoothly, "No need to bother yourself about it, Mr. Carlton; I'll take her home."

"No, please. Let me do the honors," Mr. Carlton replied just as suavely. "I must make sure my guest arrives home safely."

Tim bristled—I'm sure that if he had been a dog, his hackles would have been up. As it was, his tone was borderline belligerent, and his brown eyes narrowed dangerously as he said, "I'm quite capable of escorting my sister safely home, sir." At this point, Elizabeth arrived, shooting me a questioning glance, I shrugged uneasily.

"I never said you weren't, Mr. Schofield," Richard replied heatedly, his hands balling into fists by his sides.

Even in my slightly drunken state I could tell that something was amiss, so I attempted to remedy the situation. "I don't mind really. I can just go home with Elizabeth you know," I reminded them, gesturing towards her. They ignored me.

Tim's jaw was set, his expression dark, hostile. "You implied it," he grated through gritted teeth.

"No implications have been made, sir. I am just trying to be hospitable," Richard replied. His tone of voice said otherwise.

"Of course Mr. Carlton," my brother replied. It was impossible to tell whether it was sarcasm or not. "But I'll be taking my sister home now." And with that, he plucked the champagne glass from my hand, set it down sharply on the table, and dragged me out of the room with a slightly bewildered Elizabeth trailing behind.

"What was _that_ all about?!" I hissed to him, wrenching my hand from his grasp.

"Don't you know what happens when a guy likes a girl and the girl gets drunk and then they end up alone in a carriage in the middle of the night??"

I was taken aback. "I thought _I _was the one who read crappy teen romance novels," I said. My eyes narrowed. "And yes, I have some notion as to what happens. But Richa—Mr. Carlton wouldn't do that to me!"

"You don't know that," he snapped.

"Of all the times for you to get hostile, why did you have to do it in front of all of those people? You're _never_ hostile. What's up with you?" I fumed, feeling a red curtain of anger descend upon me, clouding rational thought and judgment until there wasn't even a glimmer left of them. "I don't see how it's your problem anyway!" I spat vehemently, "I was doing _fine_ until you got here!"

"Oh, yeah. Fine. That's why you were sobbing uncontrollably," he replied sarcastically. Suddenly, his shoulders sagged, his energy seeming to drain out of him to pool uselessly on the ground, and his face turned worn and weary. "Look, Emily. I can't say I'm comfortable here… I just don't want you to get too attached to someone who might hurt you."

I sighed. "I know…" I grimaced. "I just wish you would trust me to take care of myself sometimes." I turned away from him, crossing my arms, and in silence we walked to the carriage while Elizabeth timidly brought up the rear, looking concernedly from one of us to the other.

"Well," she said uncertainly. "Tomorrow's weather is supposed to be quite nice…"

"Yes, very," I replied, not really hearing what she was saying.

"I'm sure," Tim said noncommittally, smiling absently in a halfhearted attempt to make things right. He turned to me. "If you had gone with him, there'd have been talk."

"There'll be talk anyway," I rebutted corrosively, but I was suddenly overcome with affection, feeling it wash benevolently over me. I smiled indulgently at him and shook my head a little. "You're such a goofball," I teased, giving him a playful shove.

"我知道, (I know) 可是我们**都**是. (but we_both_ are)," he said. With that, things were instantly back to normal. Our fights never lasted—I always caved—either that, or he was never really mad at me. Elizabeth looked at the two of us like we were both so completely insane that she couldn't even _stand_ it, rolled her eyes, and then we were back.


	27. gasp again

**enjoy!**

I reflected that waking up was a pain in the 17th century. There were no alarm clocks to blare classical music at an ungodly hour of the morning. Instead, there were roosters to crow loudly and peck irately at each other, all the while sounding as raspy as though they were about to drop dead—all at an ungodly hour of the morning.

Obviously, they didn't drop dead, because every morning at the bloody crack of dawn, without fail, they were crowing, sounding like what I might imagine an old hag of a witch would sound like, if said witch were to wake up and cackle with glee at such an ungodly hour of the morning. I reflected also that if I were a witch, I most certainly would _not_ wake up at such an ungodly hour of the morning just to cackle.

Either way, I was awake at an ungodly hour of the morning, and I was not happy about it. And what was even _worse_ about being awoken at such an hour of the morning was having a _hangover_ at such an hour of the morning.

I writhed a bit in bed, moaning plaintively, "Advil," but even if anyone had heard me, they probably would not have known what I was talking about, and most likely would have reported to Elizabeth that I was writhing.

Worse! My eyes grew wide at the next thought. Not only that, but they likely would inform her that I was delusional, and odds are that she, also being awake at such an hour of the morning, would put me under extensively intensive care and make me choke down dreadful 17th century medicinal concoctions, not letting me get a single word in edgewise about how I was not ill, just dreadfully hung over.

No, it was best that I stopped writhing and decided to sit up instead, however painful the action may have been. _What do they use for pain relief these days? _I asked myself, searching the back of my mind and wishing that Elizabeth's house had wireless before realizing that:

1) I would need a laptop to make use of a wireless connection.

And also:

2) I had no way of getting _any_ computer, let alone a laptop with a wireless connection to the Internet.

So with these glum realizations, I shoved an old pair of slippers onto my tired feet, threw a robe over my chemise and shuffled dolefully down the hallway, hoping that I would eventually come to a library. The sun was in the midst of rising, its liquid golden beams streaming in beautifully through the glass windows and pooling with delicious warmth at my feet, but I couldn't fully appreciate the poetic novelty of the moment as my head hurt, my mouth felt funny, and I was quite preoccupied in trying to find some sort of compendium of medicinal knowledge.

Soon I came to a set of large, oak (I think it was oak anyway) double doors. I peeked through the crack, first grimacing at the utterly hideous oriental carpeting and then spotting a shelf of books, leading me to the conclusion that this room must be the Swann's library.

My guess proved to be correct, and I shuffled in, shoving my hands where pockets should have been and scowling when I found that they were not there. Another downside to add to the list of 'Trials of the 17th Century'—no pockets for women's clothing.

Feeling rather bothered, I crossed my arms irritably across my chest, giving a cursory scan of the extensive shelves for a book of medicines. All of the spines looked the same to me—leather bound books with spirally, cursive, gold lettering.

Finally, I came to a dusty volume with the words, 'Cough Syrups and Hangover Cures' on the front. Gently easing my sore self into a chair I opened the large tome and began to pore over the index. _Powdered fingernail... _"Eew…" _Pickled pig's feet... _I gagged. _Blood... _"What the?!" _Molasses... _"Whew, something normal." _A dead man's_ _ashes... _"That's positively disgusting."

"What's disgusting?" It was the pleasant, deep voice of a baritone—decidedly male—and familiar, but not _too_ familiar.

I jumped in surprise but continued to face the wall of musty books, hastily tying my robe shut before rising from my chair with a wince. However pleasant sounding the voice was, whoever it was said things much too loud for such an hour of the morning. I groaned inwardly. I turned, curtsied shakily, and then paled. "Hello… Mr. Carlton," I said weakly, feeling faint as the blood continued to drain from my face.

I nearly swooned. He was wearing a silk, black top hat, and in his right hand he carried a gold-topped cane, and on top of all that, he was wearing a cape of smooth black silk that fell in ripples around him. A blush crept upon my cheeks as I remembered that what I was wearing was a rumpled cotton chemise and a wrinkled old robe.

"An extensive library you have here," he commented, taking a few steps closer.

My cheeks turned pinker. "N-n-not mine," I managed to stutter. I mustered my dignity and returned to my seat, sinking gratefully into the chair and returning to the book, fiddling uselessly with the yellowed pages.

In a flash, he was at my side, reading over my shoulder. "Hangover cures?" he asked, sounding amused.

I choked a little in surprise, having not noticed his presence by my side. "Indeed," I finally replied, trying for 'distinguished nonchalance' and failing miserably, ending up with more of a 'childishly petulant.'

"If you've a headache some ground willow bark would probably do the trick," Richard suggested.

"Where might I find some willow?" I asked dryly in response.

"There's probably some in a cabinet somewhere," he said thoughtfully. "Ask Elizabeth, or one of the servants. They'll likely know."

I shut the book with an air of finality, rising, replacing the book and then turning back to Richard. "So. What brings you to the Swann's house at such an ungodly hour?" I asked, fiddling with the frayed ribbon that served as a tie to my robe.

He laughed. "The hour is not so ungodly." He drew a richly opulent golden pocket watch out of his pocket (_why is it that men have pockets and women don't? Do they think we couldn't use a pocket watch now and then?_ I thought,) and glanced at it briefly. "It's nearly half past nine."

_Dodging the question? _I pondered to myself, _Why?_ But instead of making a tactical blunder and asking, I feigned surprise. Well, it wasn't completely fake, but that's not the point. "Really?" I exclaimed. "Da—Drat!" I said, almost cursing, but then remembered whom exactly I was talking to.

"Good luck with the willow," he said. "But I'd best be off." He nonchalantly tipped his top hat, suavely kissed my hand, and then was gone, leaving with the click of an urbane boot-heel and the swish of a dashing cape.

"Emily was that—Mr. Carlton? What are you doing in the library?" Elizabeth asked, looking flabbergasted.

"Mmhmm… reading…" I murmured noncommittally, not really paying attention.

"Emily!" Elizabeth's face was a rather unbecoming shade of pink, and her hands were clenched into fists. Not that I really noticed at the time.

"Yes?" I was still not really paying attention, fingering my hair and marveling at the fact that I didn't have any split ends, despite the fact that I was in the 17th century.

"Was that Mr. Carlton?"

"Oh." I looked up at her, and smiled serenely. "Yes." I returned to twirling my hair around my finger.

Elizabeth squealed with a wide, beaming smile on her face and grabbed my hand, sitting in the seat next to mine. "And he was here _just_ to see you?"

"As far as I know, yes," I replied, finally paying attention to the conversation.

"What do you think of him?" she asked urgently, leaning forward and sitting on the very edge of her chair in a manner that I surmised to be slightly painful. I winced in sympathy, but then remembered that she had asked me a question.

I looked off into the distance, feeling ambivalent for a few minutes, having trouble with my words for once. "Well… I think he's… uhh… well… I like him… a lot…" It came out as more of a fuzzy, confused question than a statement.

She clapped her hands together, bolting up from her chair. "Oh, it's perfect! Mr. Carlton likes you, and you like him, and he's looking for a bride, so the two of you can just get married and then fade snobbishly into wealthy obscurity!" Elizabeth exclaimed, not quite shrieking.

The plan struck me as brilliant. "Yes!" I cried happily, standing quite rapidly and hugging myself.

A new voice joined ours, low and slightly harsh sounding in its contrasting acerbity. "I'm afraid that's not possible." It was Jack, sopping wet, dripping all over the hideous oriental rug. He stepped further into the room, shaking himself off a bit. "I hate to shatter your feminine hopes and dreams, but…" He faltered for once, and cleared his throat uncomfortably, uneasily fingering the end of his newly grown beard. His eyes were glued to the paisley carpet.

He swallowed hard. "Mr. Carlton is dead."


	28. Grief

**A/N: i'm back! happy long weekend all! **

**im so sad that i killed off richard... he's my favorite character... (pitiful sniffle) he lives on in my heart... (wow that was cliche)**

**please review! enjoy. :)**

Elizabeth and I gasped as one. "What?" we chorused, I with guarded distrust, and she with undisguised horror.

My body was limp with shock and doubt. "This isn't funny, Jack," I said quietly, my eyes wide in disbelief.

"It's not supposed to be funny," he replied bitterly, his expression solemn and severe, and his voice dark, tinged with some kind of acerbic corrosiveness. "They found his body in the rose garden. Bullet to the heart." He face grew even grimmer, his eyes sunken and his countenance forbidding. "And they've blamed your brother for it."

We both gasped again and I thought my eyes would pop right out of my head.

"They can't honestly think that a person like Tim would ever do something… like that," she said falteringly, looking uncertain. "Can they?"

"Oh my God," I said. I stared blankly at the oriental carpet. "I just saw him," I murmured, stunned. _How can someone's life be so quickly snuffed out from existence? One minute he's here; the next, he's gone. How can that possibly be? _"Oh my God." My hands were shaking, but I didn't care particularly at the moment. "He's dead." I shook my head numbly. "No. It's not true. Not Richard."

I looked up at Jack, feeling a swell of overwhelming hatred as a red veil of uncontrolled anger closed over me, fogging my conscience and rationality until both faded completely from view. "Liar," I hissed with venom, pointing my quivering finger accusingly at him. "You're lying," I spat violently, brimming with vehemence.

Jack shook his head, undaunted by my rage. "Apparently he and Mr. Carlton didn't get along all too well. The theory is that your brother killed him out of jealousy—or perhaps just dislike. He's locked up in the prison and being questioned every few hours. It won't take long for them to find an excuse to execute him. We don't have much time to prove he's innocent."

As sudden as its coming, the violence left me, draining rapidly through the soles of my feet to pool uselessly at my feet, leaving me weak and pale, the energy sapped from my body. "You're right," I said wearily, closing my eyes and feeling faint. Hot tears burned at my eyes, threatening to sear through my closed lids.

When I opened them, the world seemed to sway sickeningly around me, all of the colors and images blurring and overlapping each other until they were unrecognizable. I closed my eyes once more, hoping for relief, but cruel recalcitrant echoes of sounds and conversations made their painful cacophonic journey through my fragile skull. In front of me were thousands of pairs of eyes, peering at me from the overwhelming darkness, but one pair stood out, obscured with hazy, wispy tendrils of fragrant smoke. I reached out for a body that wasn't there, and with a thud, I hit the floor, blacking out.

"She seems to do this a lot doesn't she," I heard someone mutter, sounding disgruntled. A male someone. More specifically, a male someone who had to be rather close to me, as his voice was very close to my ear. I was surrounded in comforting warmth, but when I went to move, I found (much to my annoyance) that I was restricted. I frowned in consternation and whimpered unconsciously, but then scolded myself for being a baby. The aforementioned someone stroked my hair and I snuggled closer to him for a moment. But then I opened my eyes.

"Oh." I couldn't help myself. I stared, gaping like a fish, at (of all people) Jack. "Hello." The images finally registered in my mind and I shook myself. "What the Hell is going on here?!" _Jack has his arm around my waist—and we're in bed!! God!!_

"Nice to see you too," replied the usurper dryly, a slight smile gracing his lips. My captor squeezed me closer to him, his lips curling into a devious, teasing smile. "Did you sleep well?"

I missed the implied innuendo for a few minutes, and then decided (wisely, might I add) to ignore it. "Get off me!" I demanded, squirming. Then it hit me in a surge of remembrance and I went stiff. _Richard is dead. _"Dead," I murmured. I felt a lump rising in my throat as I managed to rasp out quietly, "No," but then, any semblance of self-control evaporated and I let out a small whimper, tears streaming in salty ribbons down my face. Ashamed, I dropped my head in my hands and rubbed my eyes.

The only word to describe it is grief.

I had not known grief before. I had cried before, yes, but I had never felt such overwhelming, all-encompassing grief that overtook me in great swelling waves like this.

And I wanted to go home. I longed more than ever to be in my own, familiar room, reading by the comfortingly artificial light of an electric lamp and hearing the faint blare of an advertisement from the T.V. below. This desire lodged itself so firmly in my chest that pain smote me there, lying heavy in my rib cage like an overly ripe fruit on a tree, rotting from the inside.

Jack brought me back to the present, drawing me out of my pain with what sounded like an awkward soothing nothing to my ear.

"Shh… We don't have time for this." He released my waist, massaging my shoulders. "You don't want your brother to die too, do you?" he cooed softly, petting me like the baby I was acting as.

I sniffled dolefully into his shoulder, feeling decidedly immature and not caring much. "No," I replied sullenly, pouting like a petulant child, my lower lip quivering as I faced the fact that I was stuck for a while until Tim was freed.

"Then we'd best get going," he reminded me patronizingly. He stood, looking down at me with the annoyed fondness of a parent. Déjà vu. Once more, an egotistical man was staring down at my plight with the long-suffering air of someone who thinks they are utterly superior, and for all the wrong reasons—one particularly strong reason pertaining to gender. "Up," he commanded, not quite imperious, but nowhere near humble either.

I gave a plaintive moan, falling forward dramatically and lying with my face on the bed, breathing in the smell of the laundry detergent they must've used in that time period for duvet covers with a dreadful combination of sinful laziness, sorrow and frustration filling my bones. _Why am I expected to put my grief aside?_ I was at my most emotional (in a bad way), and at that particular moment in time I was _also_ feeling undeniably unsociable.

When he saw that I was going to make a fuss, he sat down on the bed next to my sprawled form. I buried my face in the duvet, feeling like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand, trying to make him go away, but, undaunted, he rubbed my neck a little, and sounded uncomfortable. "Come now… we have to save your brother, Emily."

I impatiently wiped my tears away and rolled away from him, standing coldly, with defiance. "Lead the way, _Captain_," I consented none-too-happily, not quite hissing.

He didn't miss the sarcasm, but he didn't comment on it either, beckoning with one ringed hand and muttering something under his breath that sounded distinctly like a grumble about 'troublesome strumpets who don't follow orders.' I pursed my lips in disapproval and _I_ muttered something about troublesome chauvinistic _men_ who can't admit that women gave them life and are thusly inherently superior.

He sent a scathing, sour glance back at me in response to my rebelliously muttered counter-comment/rebuttal, but I just smiled serenely like a wise queen watching vigilantly over her court and then put on my most arrogant, 'Marie-Antoinette:-Let-them-eat-cake,' look.

He looked like he would've liked to roll his eyes, but didn't, grabbing my hand setting off at a run that I had no chance at keeping up with. So I suppose he just decided to haul me unceremoniously through the dirty streets, my feet dragging in the reddish dust.

"For God's sake! Where are we going?!" I asked churlishly, speaking with a combination of indignation and irritation, as I tried futilely to gain my own footing and reclaim ownership of my seized hand.

He growled in frustration and slung me over his shoulder, ignoring my yelp of protest with a terse, "Stop _talking_!" as we reached what I guessed to be the naval base. He dropped me, and I fell to the filthy cobblestones in an unorganized heap, making a loud, painful **_THUD_**.

"Ow…" I muttered sourly, wincing, rubbing my backside slightly. My gaze fell upon Tim and I surged towards the bars. A nearby guard made some feeble protests, but I largely ignored him as he was probably younger than me anyhow. "Tim, we have to get you out of here," I whispered urgently, wrapping my hands around the cold iron.

"I'm not sure whether I should be grateful or depressed that it's a hanging and not the guillotine," Tim said, chagrinned, trying to make light of the situation, but wincing slightly anyhow.

"Sorry, but I think the guillotine is probably less painful," I replied frankly. "Let's get one thing straight. Did you kill him?"

"No. I heard a gunshot and came running, but the person that fired was gone by then," Tim replied, his answer prompt and grim, as a sour look adorned his face.

"Okay," I said, thinking furiously. _Who were Richard's enemies? Might this have been countering something that he had done to someone? Who was nearby when it happened; what were they doing? _Thousands of questions ran through my head, none answered. "I'll be back, Tim," I called distractedly, on my way out the door.

I strode with purpose down the road, fairly running as if to leave some of the thoughts behind so that I might come back to pick them up later, when I had less to sort out. I fought to keep my thoughts in order, trying to gather them into a semblance of organization, and finally, the opportunity presented itself. '_CSI,'_ came unbidden into my frenzied mind, and soon all of my energies focused on that point._ Crime Scene Investigation, _I thought. _That's where I have to start. The scene of the crime._

And with this last thought, I raced off with an incredulous Jack in tow. "To the crime scene," I muttered under my breath. "Onward!"


	29. Orange?

**A/N: so sorry for the long wait! i'm super busy now! gah! please enjoy!**

Surprisingly, there was no one at the crime scene; not a guard in sight, which was lucky for us, as Jack would likely have been arrested for _something_, if not just _existing_, pirate that he was. I blanched at what I saw there, feeling sick. Richard's body still had not been moved, and the gun that had been used to shoot him was still present. I almost threw up in revulsion, but forced myself to be analytical, circling the spot and examining the gun. As I had suspected, it was a flintlock pistol, one of the popular guns in the 17th century. I crouched down and stared at it for a while, breathing slowly to regain control over myself, when I realized something.

There was a distinct smell on the pistol that seemed to not belong. I took a deep whiff. The salty tang of sweat, the sickening reek of drying blood, and the dusty, dry musk of gunpowder; all expected.

But there was something else there, a fragrant, gentle smell that I could not discern. I sniffed once more, feeling like a dog, and rather ridiculous.

The feeling of silliness went away, however, when the smell became more prominent in my mind, hovering just out of the reach of my recognition.

"Perfume maybe?" I wondered out-loud. Another sniff. "This is weird." I beckoned distractedly to Jack with one hand. "Smell this," I ordered. Lucky for me, he obeyed, despite raising his eyebrows as he did so.

The eyebrows shot up further as he sniffed it, threatening to disappear into his hairline. "Odd," he commented noncommittally, looking at the pistol like it was going to bite him, his body tense with unmasked suspicion.

"Indeed," I concurred grimly, smelling it again, breathing in deeper this time. "Is that…" I trailed off, narrowing my eyes in disbelief and doubt, frowning as I considered the idea. I made a face. The question was: trust my often fickle senses or be left with nothing? The decision was obvious for me. _Take what ya' got._ "Grapefruit?" I said dubiously.

He smelled it once more. "No… orange maybe…" he replied, looking hesitantly at the gun.

Impatience snapped like an overstretched rubber band within me. "Who smells like oranges?" I exclaimed incredulously, my exasperation getting the better of me.

"Any number of people really," he replied in his obscurely funny way, shrugging. I rolled my eyes, and not in a very friendly way either.

"Be serious," I told him flatly. "Who is someone that Mr. Carlton knew who would have smelled like citrus fruit?"

"Well," pondered Jack, "It would have to be someone who's fairly well-off monetarily."

"You thinking upper or middle class?" I asked.

"Both. You know; wealthy merchants and nobles. That sort of folk."

"Old money and new money," I clarified for myself. "How do you propose we go about figuring this out?"

"We?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

I scowled. "Yes, _we_. I can't do this on my own."

His lips curled into a devilish smile, his eyes lit with mischief. "So you finally admit that you need my help."

I smiled slightly, but was troubled. "Whoever said I didn't?" I quipped, but part of me knew that there was another smell beneath them all, one that did not belong, but I could not place it.

I shrugged the matter off and stood, trying to grasp my surroundings. One would not completely guess that a man had been killed there; a cool, quiet breeze rustled the rose bushes, and many of the flowers were in full bloom, opening up their soft, delicate petals to the surrounding world to be admired. Beneath our feet was a spiraling pattern of tiles, a myriad of colors that gave the garden the quaint feel of a terrace.

As my gaze turned to the hedge beside me, it occurred to me that a rose garden would be the perfect place to kill someone—secluded, with enough shrubbery to cover the sound at least a _little_. It was such an innocent setting; not the kind where one would expect to have the sudden and cold kiss of a smoky smelling pistol next to her head. I grimaced. It certainly would have caught _me_ unawares.

A stripe of color caught my eye, and I approached it cautiously, as if it were a snake. I slowly pulled a lavender hair ribbon from its green prison in the bush and fingered it absently.

"Hair ribbon," I observed dumbly, not coming to any conclusions, stroking the lilac silk without paying attention. There were snags in the fabric from the leaves and thorns of the rose bush. I had the impulse to smell it, so I did.

"Oh my god!" I exclaimed, and my head snapped up as a conviction formed in my head. "Mr. Carlton was killed by a woman," I told Jack decisively, using my most intense tone in an attempt to convince him.

He laughed. _The sheer audacity!!_ He _laughed!! _"Don't be silly," he said, plucking the hair ribbon from my hands.

I snatched it back with a death glare, cradling it protectively in my hands. "I'm not," I shot back fiercely. I waved the hair ribbon about, looking slightly ridiculous and not caring. "This is proof!" I declared firmly. "It _had_ to be a woman. This ribbon proves it."

"It doesn't prove anything," he rebutted, but it was obvious he wasn't taking me seriously.

"That's why the pistol has perfume on it! Because it was a woman who was holding it!" I exclaimed, new idea falling upon new idea in a heady rush. I looked around wildly, my eyes darting around for more evidence. "She must have been an upper class woman."

"Tell me _this_, detective," he said sarcastically, "Why would a _girl_ be carrying a gun?"

"Because she was _planning_ to kill someone, duh!" I answered with exasperation, moving around rapidly from spot to spot, pacing like a tiger in a cage. "Who wears hair ribbons?" I asked him, sounding almost frantic.

"_Most_ girls do," he replied frankly, skepticism written all across his face. "This hair ribbon tells us _nothing_. Move on, Emily."

"No," I barked out. "_This_ is the answer!" I waved the forlorn purple ribbon around frenetically like a pathetic little flag.

"How do you even know that's the murderer's ribbon?" he asked, not sparing any ounce of exasperation.

"Smell!" I ordered, thrusting it under his nose.

He glared at me, but to his credit, he took a whiff.

"See?" I said smugly. "They smell the same!"

He looked as if he was about to hit me, and coward that I was, I flinched away from him as he raised one quivering hand. But then he clenched it into a fist and stuffed it back to his side. "So what if it smells like oranges; that means nothing!"

My fear evaporated in the face of my anger. "It means everything!" I shouted, getting in his face. "Everything!!" It was a shriek now, shrill and desperate and piercing even to my own ears. I hated myself for it.

I stepped back and took a deep breath to calm myself. I sighed. "Look, there are no other clues. Go with what's available, and right now, that's perfume and a hair ribbon."

His expression was resigned, the corners of his eyes sagging and the tension draining away. "I suppose you're right. I just can't imagine a girl carrying a pistol around."

"Imagine Anamaria," I advised him, my voice deadpan.

The corners of his mouth twitched up into a rueful smile, and he sucked in his breath, wincing. "Right."

I was emotionally exhausted; I wanted to drag my lousy self to the nearest ditch and just curl up and die. I'm not sure how it happened, but soon after our argument, I was being steered like a lost lamb to Elizabeth's house and into a now familiar bedroom, where I fell onto the bed and instantly into sleep, not even remembering my head having touched the pillow.

* * *

I awoke and it was the middle of the night. I wept—big, fat teardrops accompanied by heaving sobs and whimpering, all muffled by a pillow. I was not given any comfort, nor did I want any; sometimes it is good to wallow in mourning, or so I've heard.

However, I didn't know if my tears were for Mr. Carlton's death, or the shattering of my own petty, girlish hopes. The two had so melded together in my mind that I could no longer be sure.

All I knew was I needed to be home. I would save Tim, and then I'd find home. A scant plan, but it eased my mind nonetheless.

If only I had ruby slippers and a magic wand. I believed in _anything_ now. I would try _anything_. I just wanted to be home.


	30. Meditation

**A/N: another update? and so soon? i didn't think i had it in me. i thank the snow day we had today. no classes! anyway, the next update will be written in a different pov, so watch out for that, but this one is pretty normal. enjoy!**

I did eventually fall asleep (I dreamed ecstatically of playing the music of Debussy my favorite French composer on Steinway grand pianos that actually stayed in tune, unlike the keyboard instruments in the 17th century) only to be jerked awake as a hand not belonging to me was on my mouth. Instantly, I screamed, but of no avail, for my captor's hand was clapped firmly over my gob.

"Hush," the captor whispered, the voice low and annoyed, and maybe even slightly congested sounding. The strange thought popped into my head that this man was probably suffering from some illness like the common cold. Oddly enough, I felt a speck of sympathy for him, as they probably didn't have 'Advil Cold and Sinus' in the 17th century.

My sympathy evaporated, however, when the situation finally hit me full force. I was being kidnapped. I had the urge to scream, but ignored it, as screaming would not help, no matter _how_ much I managed to ruin my vocal cords.

My eyes darted frantically from side to side of the dark room until they finally took in the gleam of a neatly polished pistol next to my head. I nearly screamed again, fighting my captor with all of my strength—which was not much. I was out of my mind with terror, my eyes rolling around like a horse that has spotted a wolf. I could barely breathe, what with the hand over my mouth, and my heart was beating at a frenetic rate that was probably unhealthy.

Something slipped from my captor's hand, falling to the bed, but I did not have the presence of mind to pick it up, and he didn't seem to notice.

My futile thrashing eventually subsided as I realized how ridiculous it was to think that I would be able to break free. He removed his hand from my mouth (finally) and I took a deep breath, then said immediately, "What the Hell?"

He gave me a funny look that screamed, '_that_ was not what I expected,' and then paused, drawing back and looking at me as if he expected me to break into hysterics.

I glared, trying to get a good look at him. _He's no older than sixteen! _I thought. _What a sad world it must be if teenagers resort to randomly kidnapping people in the middle of the night._ "Mind telling me what's going on?" I said mildly, raising my eyebrows expectantly.

He looked confused. "I… uhh…" he mumbled.

"Speak up, boy," I ordered sharply, taking on my loftiest tone. He looked even more confused than before if possible, and opened his mouth to speak several times, looking very much like a fish gasping for air.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably and then took on what I assumed to be his 'tough and scary' look. "I'm kidnapping you," he explained.

"Tell me something I _don't_ know," I deadpanned flatly. I leaned back with nonchalance. "For instance… _Why_ are you kidnapping me?" I wasn't sure why I wasn't panicking; normally, I would be panicking, but this kid just seemed so utterly harmless.

He looked pleased, as if he hadn't known what to say before and finally did now. "Ransom," he replied firmly.

I smiled benignly. "Now how exactly do you plan on ransoming me if you haven't got any paper to write a ransom note on, hmm?" I asked patronizingly.

Bingo. I'd hit the nail on the head. He bit his lip. "Well… I…"

"Exactly," I cut in, my smile gentle. "You don't _plan_, you just _do_, am I correct?"

He glared at me, crossing his arms over his chest with endearingly childlike petulance. "Well, I brought the gun, didn't I?"

"Do you know how to use it?"

"Sure I do!" he cried indignantly. "You take the… the thingy up here and put it next to the… eh… the… other thingy."

"Is that a technical term?" I asked teasingly.

His hazel eyes narrowed and his face flushed with color. "All I have to know is how to pull the trigger."

I laughed, and he looked put out. "That's what I thought when I first tried to fire a pistol," I lied, leaving out the part that was basically, '_I was so bored one time that I decided to look it up on Wikipedia._' I smiled. "It's a little more complicated than you think," I chided condescendingly.

He popped back the safety with a loud _click_ and placed it between my eyes. My smile vanished. "I know how to fire it," he threatened.

I put my hands up and tried not to look as scared as I felt. "I'll take your word for it," I quipped weakly.

His grin was wolfish, almost feral looking. "That's what I thought," he said smugly. The grin grew wider, which had to bode ill for me. He held a damp cloth over my face. "Goodnight."

And I was out like a light.

* * *

I rubbed my temples as I awoke, sitting up and feeling uncommonly stiff in my joints. My eyes fluttered open to the blurry sight of a lanky teen somewhere in between child and adult. His unruly mop of red hair flopped attractively to one side, his hazel eyes were rather piercing, and his relatively small nose was slightly red from what I assumed to be the aforementioned cold. I grimaced, looking down with distaste at the chains attached to my arms.

"Really, sir, you spare no expense," I drawled dryly.

He smiled and gave a little mock bow. "Anything for the lady." I rolled my eyes and turned my attention to my surroundings. My nose wrinkled slightly in revulsion as I noticed a rise and fall in the room. _Another one of these bloody boats. _I spotted a window and craned my neck to see out of it and was rewarded oh-so-richly with the image of water extending out as far as the eye could see.

His look became intolerably smug, so in turn, mine became dubious and wary. "By the way," he started. "I have some paper here. Guess what you'll be using it for?"

I was feeling vindictive and I had a headache. I wanted him to be confused. "Not fanfiction, I'd wager," I said brightly, sending him a brilliantly beaming smile and positively twitching from the irony of it.

"You're going to write a letter to your friend Elizabeth Swann."

"Soon to be Elizabeth Turner," I interjected, just to annoy him.

He gave me an irritated look and then continued. "And it is going to say that you've eloped with someone and are quite happy. And you're going to tell her to not come after you. Ever." He smiled triumphantly.

"Brilliant, Einstein," I said sarcastically, enjoying his look of bewilderment and ignoring my sinking heart. "But you don't gain any money with that, now do you?"

"That is none of your affair," he said smoothly.

He provided paper and a quill. I gave him a look of utmost derision to cover my desire to cry, and pulled a mechanical pencil from my pocket (I never go anywhere without one).

If I was a clever young woman, I'd figure out someway to write the letter in code; I'd make a miraculous escape, leaving battalions of soldiers defeated behind me; I'd heroically thrust my pencil into this boy's heart, the callous bastard that he was; I would contact my brother and save him and then be dubbed the first female knight by the king; I would do _something_!

But I was not a clever young woman. I was a little girl who just wanted to be home with her brother and her mommy.

Panic struck me as I tried to think frantically of something to write. And then it came to me. It would just be so absurd that they (my friends and my brother) couldn't possibly believe it. It would be absolutely ridiculous. Elizabeth would be filled with her characteristically oh-so-ladylike shock, I'm sure, but I knew that Tim would sense there was a problem. And then he would laugh at the absurd things I said, but first he'd think of my welfare. _Well, at least that's what he _should_ do, _I quipped to myself.

For good measure, I decided to write one line in code the way that numbers correspond to the alphabet. Perhaps I was a clever young woman after all.

_Dearest Elizabeth,_

_I am sorry that I have left you on such short notice, and even sorrier to that I will never see you again. I have found someone that I truly love (he is a math/science dude, and you know how I just _love_ math and science), and have eloped with him. Share this wonderful news with my brother. I'm sure he will be quite interested to know also that I've become a devout Buddhist._ _Also tell my brother that I hate the French composer, Claude Debussy, and have given up writing so that I can have more time to take up calculus and construct my own computer using only toothpicks, licorice drops and a fan. My snooklekins will help me. Please do not come after me. I am perfectly happy learning calculus from my darling snooklekins and trying to build a computer._

_Best in all that you do. Tim, remember to work on your vowels; keep them open, especially when you sing high, otherwise you go sharp._

_Goodbye my darlings. And remember: 8, 5, 12, 16—13, 5!_

_Earnestly,_

_Emily Cheng_

My face completely blank, I folded the letter and passed it to my captor. "Goes with your black heart," I said viciously, trying my best not to laugh and give everything away. I admit that I was feeling and acting entirely loopy. As long as I could throw my captor off balance, I would.

He read the letter with suspicion in his eyes, and raised his eyebrows incredulously once he had finished reading. "Was the 'snooklekins' really necessary?" The emotion that now prevailed on his face was unmasked disgust.

"Absolutely," I replied promptly. I propped my head up with my two hands. "Now tell me, what is it that you are gaining in this plan to kidnap me? I thought I was going up for ransom. I guess I'm just not ransom-worthy?"

He smiled in a way that was far too ambiguous for my liking. "You'll just have to find out, won't you?"

"I suppose," I said, trying not to show how glum I felt. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, sitting pretzel style on the floor and letting my senses melt away into a blank canvas of white.

The fool interrupted my reverie. "What are you doing?"

I opened one eye and then the other, looking up at him with an expression of indifference and near tranquility. "I am meditating," I answered simply, careful to keep the tonal inflection neutral. My eyes fluttered closed once more as I concentrated on my breathing, slowing its pace to a steady, sluggish pulse. "Ommm…. Ommmm…." I chanted.

But then my eyes snapped open and the atmosphere seemed to crackle with awareness. Recognition flared within me and my eyes grew very wide. I clamored to my feet, chains rattling about my ankles and wrists. "Hey! You're the kid who was working for the East India Trading Company! You brought me tea!"

I faltered, and the mood turned dark. "You're in league with Dorian then I suppose." My look turned sour. "Did he put you up to this?"

He sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged as I did. His gaze was overwhelmingly intense. "I swear to you that Dorian did not put me up to this."

"Well, then who did? I think I have the right to know."

"Never you mind." I was reminded once again that I was a woman, and therefore 'inferior'. I scowled, but sat and resumed my meditation, falling into uncomfortable sleep.


	31. TIMOTHY'S POV! OMG!

**A/N: i'm back from the dead!!! sorry bout the wait (my life suddenly got interesting) and hope you enjoy.**

**PLEASE NOTE!!! THE POV IS TIMOTHY'S POV. NOT MINE. TIM'S POV. TIM'S** **POINT OF VIEW.**

**now that that is cleared up, please enjoy this chapter that is_ from_ _tim's pov_. :) it has my brother's seal of approval (it is supposed to be my bro after all...)**

The prison is way too still. It feels like the pool when there's too much chlorine in the air before a tough meet. (Wow, that was a lame simile.) It's much like the eerie quiet that shows up before a typhoon comes and kills everybody. I'm not sure if it's because I've been accused of murder, or just crazy. I soundlessly swing my feet off the cot and lightly set my feet on the floor before standing. I can feel just how cold the floor is through my socks (they took my modern looking sneakers for 'examination'), but I ignore the chill as I pad around the small cell.

It surprises me how cold it is in the prison—was it especially chosen for its icy location? Did they purposefully set out to find the one—the only—pocket of cold air in the whole frickin' Caribbean? I move these thoughts away and focus on the task at hand, while endlessly pacing.

The idea here is to get my Ninja on so that the guard doesn't notice (Though I know Emily would smack me upside the head and then tell me how obsessed with Naruto I am if she heard such ninja-oriented thoughts). I shrug, poking my head through the bars and sending brief glances down both directions of the long hallway. One door is left ajar and the rest are closed solidly.

Luckily, they did not take my watch. I would be very lost without it. I glance at it impatiently. Emily should be here already; it's not like her to be late, let alone thirty minutes late.

Something is wrong here.

I soothe my overly excited mind with the thought that she's probably just out taking a walk or trying to be a freaking Sherlock clone again.

But then my gaze turns back to the hallway. Elizabeth stands there, looking frazzled, her eyes intense.

I raise my eyebrows as she wordlessly holds up something that glimmers and winks in the morning light. It seems to be a key.

"What is that?" I ask for clarification, despite the fact that I'm pretty sure it's a key by now (though to what I may never know).

She does not answer my question, saying hoarsely, "She's gone." She passes the key to me through the bars, and I wonder why the guard hasn't stopped her.

Twenty bucks she bribed the guard.

I examine the key closely. On the top is engraved the letters, 'CQ,' and directly beneath, written in tiny, barely discernable script, is '_The Dolphin_.' I raise my eyebrows once more and hand it back to her, and then she pockets the key. "My sister?"

"Yes," she says, her voice still intense as if someone is holding a gun to her head.

My pulse speeds up and I sit cross-legged on the cot, trying to arrange my scattered thoughts. One gains prominence in my mind. "I have to get out. Now," I mutter to myself.

She leans in close to the bars and beckons with her pale hand. Once I move reluctantly into her range, her hand darts out like the venomous head of a snake, grabs my collar, and mashes my head up against the bars sideways. I wince slightly.

"Do not try to escape yet," she whispers intensely into my ear, her nails digging painfully into my skin. "We will come for you. Until we do, do not move from this cell."

"I won't," I assure her, knowing that hell will freeze over at least twice before I actually sit and wait there. She's crazier than I am, and that's saying something.

"Good," she coos in a way that strikes me as almost coquettish, her nails brushing the edge of my hair while her thumb massages my neck. I jerk away from her. It occurs to me for the first time that this girl will stop at nothing to get what she wants, and I realize that she is trying to bribe me. I am not so easily bought. My eyes narrow in a mix of suspicion and hostility, but she does not notice, and leaves.

I have no intention of keeping to my word. If my sister is out there somewhere being tortured, I _will_ do something.

* * *

Several hours and a very bad headache later, I am banging my head against the bars (and I wonder why I have a headache). I tried to find a way out, but the stupid door is locked fast, and the small square that serves as a window is useless for escape. I grab the bars and shake them with an unusual amount of vigor. 

Suddenly, I freeze mid-shake, eyebrows knitted in concentration, ears straining.

I start again, but more deliberately. Is that a loose part I hear? I examine the hinges one by one, and the last hinge's pin, with some careful wriggling, slips out of its rusty prison. I have helped it out of its prison, and now it will help me out of mine. For the first time that day, I smile. I now have a lock pick at my disposal. I set to work.

I shove the pin into the keyhole and wiggle it around until I can hear the tumblers fall into place. I push the door open into the face of a guard. _Whoops, my bad, not supposed to escape yet_. He hollers, "A prisoner's escaping!" and I can see a bunch (okay, fine. Only four) of them running towards me.

"Crap," I say like any intelligent young man would, pocketing the pin and balling my hands into fists. I'm in for a whipping, but I put on a brave front, taking up a 'fighting stance' that I may have gotten from a video game/movie.

They draw their swords. "Crapola," I mutter.

"Timothy Cheng!!!" a woman screams, wading through the armed men. I am glad she does not know my middle name. Any extra exposure to her berating voice would probably send me into convulsions.

It is Elizabeth, only in breeches. She looks like she just hopped out of the cover of a feminist historical fiction novel. "Why didn't you follow my directions?"

"Sibling love," I say dryly, watching two other people fight their way to my side. It is Jack and Will, and now there are only three guards left. "Glad to see I've been joined by the terrible trio," I say with a hint of sarcasm.

"How did you get out?" This is Will.

"Lock picking," I reply promptly.

For a moment, we all just stand there, staring at each other.

"A-A-A-I-I-I-I-E-E-E-E!!" Elizabeth shouts, sounding like an Amazon War Priestess as she brings a beer bottle crashing over some poor man's head. (Don't ask me where she got the beer bottle from, I don't know.)

I shrug, and soon the other two guards are out cold on the floor. "Did you really need the war cry?"

"Of course," she says loftily, breezing past me. I look heavenwards with a level of resigned annoyance.

I quickly throw my shoes on as they start to leave. "Where to?"

"The docks."

We leave; fleeing by darkness to the boat I had seen so often when my sister insisted on watching POTC. _The Black Pearl. _Never thought all those viewings would be so… helpful.

**a/n: next chappie will be back to my POV. what do you think of this'un though?**


	32. new developments

**A/N: normal POV (emily's). enjoy! please review!**

I was tucking into a huge bowl of ice cream, two flavors of reddi-whip™ on hand. "Chocolate or vanilla?" I asked myself. I shrugged and added both, taking an enormous bite. I moaned in pleasure. Oh how I'd missed ice cream… and whipped cream too… I was about to add some Hershey's chocolate syrup and offer some to a cat (despite the fact that they can't taste sugar…) but then…

…I woke up. I looked around at the dank 17th century trappings and swore vividly, using several words that I had vowed once not to use. Oh well. I looked around furiously for something to throw.

In my anger, I shouted, "God damn it; I scream for ice cream!!!" sounding shrill as I hurled a glass dish of ink that happened to be on hand at the wall, obscurely enjoying the way that it shattered into a million tiny pieces. I thought I heard the disgruntled yowl of a cat, and then dismissed it as a figment of my imagination, turning my mind to waiting for the reaction of my captor.

Within minutes, the blasted EITC kid had shown up. His mouth hung wide open as he stared at the ink splattered on the wall and the pool of black and shattered glass on the floor. I just smiled in a way that was belligerent and probably slightly scary.

He gave me a look that was part confusion, part consternation, part annoyance, and all dislike. "Look what you've done," he scolded me condescendingly.

He grabbed a towel that happened to be conveniently placed nearby and flung it at my face. He missed by a little, aiming too far up so that it sailed towards me and then landed with a swish on top of my head. It plopped into my lap. "Make yourself useful and clean it up," he ordered tartly.

I stared at the towel without comprehension, letting its blurred white surface slide in and out of my vision until I saw two of it. There was something about it that was just _wrong_. It looked wrong in my line of sight; it felt wrong in my hands. I lifted it to my face and gave it a good whiff. As I suspected, it even _smelled_ wrong. Not bad per se, just strange. It seemed as if half of my senses were heightened and focused on the towel, while the other half dimmed.

Then suddenly, I was overcome with nausea. I swayed a little, but regained control over my complaining stomach. Then everything overlapped in my senses until the only thing I was conscious of was the wrongness of the towel in my hands. The world was consumed by darkness.

* * *

"You're more trouble than you're worth." Grumbled words penetrated the fog in my mind. 

I meowed, curling into a ball._ Since when do I meow?_

"Strange that the girl and Tansy both passed out at the same time, wouldn't you agree?" an unfamiliar voice mused.

A voice that I recognized as my captor's replied, "Not that much, seeing as the girl still hasn't come to. Bloody nuisance."

I stretched, yawned and opened my mouth to speak. What came out was a string of mewling noises that should have been, _I think I'm feverish. But who's Tansy?_ My eyes flickered open and I instantly winced, closing them. Perhaps I had gone blind. A pair of glasses was most certainly in order. I carefully reopened my eyes, adjusting to my now blurry eyesight. I scrambled to my feet, but instantly fell onto my hands. Out of the corner of my not very good peripheral vision, I noticed something different about my hands… I looked down, and screamed.

Perhaps yowled would be a more appropriate word.

"What's wrong Tansy?" a bearded man said patronizingly. (What is it with people and patronizing me?)

_What's wrong?! I'm a freaking cat, that's what's wrong! And my name is **not** Tansy!! _I tried to shout, ending up with a number of indignant howls. I was your everyday, run-o-the-mill tabby cat with gray vertical stripes and white socks. My reflection in the glassy pool of ink showed that my eyes were 'bottle-green,' and that I was a relatively slim cat.

I gave a little cat-shrug, meowing, _Well, I could've done worse. _I frowned. With the swiftness and alacrity that I had lacked as a human, I made my way over to a body that, after some cursory inspection, I recognized as my own. I pawed at my human body and then hopped on top of it, curling up on what was my stomach. I breathed a sigh of relief as it moved me up and down. _I'm still breathing. _

This had to be the work of the Nameless Wanderer, that bastard. I examined my paws and noted with feral approval that I still had claws. Nice, sharp, pointy claws. So if I ever happened to run into a certain powerful someone who was interfering with my life, then I would be able to easily gouge his or her eyes out. This brought me great satisfaction. I swiped aimlessly at the air, liking the sound of the sharp edge swishing through the air. I then curled up for some much needed rest (what can I say, I was a cat. Cats are known for their sleeping habits.)

* * *

When I later awoke, my stomach growled, and for the first time in a week or so, I was _not_ craving cake. Amazing. The buzz of a nasal voice that I had heard and promptly forgotten languished in my ear for a moment as I remembered my ninth grade biology teacher saying as if bored, "Cats don't taste sugar or sweets. That's probably why they're so malicious." I shook myself slightly to clear myself of the memory, shaking my head ruefully. _Never thought I'd experience that first hand... _

My ears perked up a little at the sound of pans clanking in the next room. I picked myself up, stretched, and swaggered (yes, cats _can_ swagger) through a small opening and into what I presumed to be the kitchen. Sorry. The galley.

The bearded man who had called me Tansy greeted me warmly, "Tansy, you scoundrel you." He scooped me up and I resisted the urge to yelp in surprise, eyeing him askance. _He looks nice enough... but one can never be sure..._ A scrap of food interrupted my waffling on the man's moral character and completed the bond of friendship between us. I purred (a new experience for me, that's to be sure), took the food and leapt from his arms to the counter. I practically inhaled the food, and after I was done, I returned to my newfound job as the sentinel of my human body.

I growled at innocent bystanders. (the bearded man)

I growled at not-so-innocent bystanders. (the EITC kid)

I growled at strangers. (a frightening looking woman who wore far too much jewelry. She looked like some kind of cross between Amazonian war priestess and a seventeenth century trust fund baby.)

I even growled several times at myself.

But more often, I growled at the Amazonian-war-priestess/seventeenth-century-trust-fund-baby (big surprise there). She was absolutely _dripping_ with vulgar jewelry, but what caught my attention was her scent. Because of my heightened cat-smell (I felt like some strange, demented version of Cat woman™), one whiff spoke volumes. As she walked by the first time with a _WHOOSH_, the scent she left behind was almost citrus-y. My bad cat-memory (definitely a _demented_ version of Cat woman™, and strange had nothing to do with it) frustrated me because the scent struck a chord in my head, but since I was a cat, I couldn't remember why.

The second time she walked by (this time with more of a _SWISH_), it smelled odd in an all too familiar way.

I froze.

_The smell that did not belong._

It all came back to me in an overwhelming rush, sweeping me up and leaving all prior thoughts behind.

A memory jolted awake and I could see my thoughts of the past for a brief moment. _There was another smell beneath them all, one that did not belong, but I could not place it. _I remembered in a heady burst my words. _"That's why the pistol has perfume on it! Because it was a woman who was holding it!" _echoed in my head.

I yowled out a '_Eureka!_' and began to pace across the room, dissecting the smells that lingered in the air from her presence. _The smell that did not belong is—oh my god. Gasoline! _I exclaimed in cat-language, each thought falling fast on the heels of its predecessor. _Gasoline didn't exist in the seventeenth century! _(sometimes it pays to be a Google junkie.)_ That woman is from the future!_

Now my exhilarating thoughts came to sudden halt as my mind came to a dead end. _What woman is from the future but has access to the past?_ Grimly, I answered my own question. _Only me. And_ I_ sure as Hell didn't kill Richard. So who did?_


	33. Fusion POV

**A/N: i'm baaack!! this is tim's POV, but the POV changes at the border (back to normal then) please review! and enjoy!**

I've discovered that ships in the seventeenth century aren't the same as ships where I come from. In a bad way. I can still taste the vomit in my mouth.

Maybe it was seasickness. Maybe it was the food.

Twenty bucks it was the rum.

And now, Gibbs is talking to me about how wonderful it is. He just doesn't shut up, does he?

"Makes ya forget troubles, it does," he tells me proudly. He stares off at the horizon and ignores the quizzical look I am giving him. I consider asking him about his sideburns, and then decide against it.

The ship heaves. So does my stomach. Faintly I hear Gibbs commanding, "Over the rail lad, over the rail." I comply and then wipe my mouth on my now grimy sleeve. I am as miserable as I have ever been.

And then it starts to rain.

Aren't I lucky?

Gibbs curses, mutters something about what bad luck I am, and limps off. I am glad, as it's finally quiet, but he shouldn't be limping. Being vomited on does not make you limp.

Good riddance! I think.

On second thought, I may have actually shaken my fist and shouted it after him.

A minor detail.

"There's a ship gaining on us!" Elizabeth screeches. So much for the quiet. Without really caring, I look briefly in the direction she's pointing.

In the distance, there's a British flag flapping. "A naval ship," I deadpan flatly. "Oh goody." Perhaps the navy has a GPS that homes in on Elizabeth wherever she is.

Elizabeth wrings her hands and paces in a way that's _really_ annoying. "What do you suppose they want?" she asks frantically, a line of worry appearing in her forehead.

"What does the navy ever want? Money," I say, and I wonder when I got so cynical.

She sends me a glare that I pointedly ignore. I look over at Captain Sparrow, who seems unconcerned. I walk over to him. "Ahem," I say to get his attention. He swivels and looks at me with odd intensity. I back up a little. "You did notice the naval ship, right?"

He flaps his hand a little in dismissal. "I'ss juss' fine," he slurs.

I am now convinced that he is completely wasted, but I acknowledge his authority with a slight, casual salute. "Whatever you say, Captain."

In no time, the ship is beside us and we have come to a halt. A young boy with a high voice and a stiffly starched uniform stands at the side of the naval ship, rigid as a board. "Permission to come aboard sir!" he squeaks, saying it as more of a statement than a question.

Sparrow raises his eyebrows quizzically. "Want to sign the articles lad? We're actually in need of a ship's boy or two, for when the crew gets hungry."

The boy turns a shade of pink that's _got_ to be unhealthy. "N-no sir," he stutters. "I-I h-have a letter for M-miss Swann, sir." _Definitely have a GPS on Elizabeth._

"Well, _HAND IT OVER Y' GOB_!" Sparrow bellows unmercifully.

The boy whimpers a little, but to his credit, holds his ground. He gulps. "Sir, I was told to give it directly to her."

Before Sparrow can say anything, Elizabeth is by the rail and snatches the letter from the boy's hand. The boy looks up at her like Christmas has come early; too bad he doesn't know she's a crazy conniving wench.

"Thank you," she says kindly. He looks as if he's just encountered a golden goddess embodiment of all things good. Elizabeth realizes that and simpers a little. She puts her hand on his shoulder and smiles down at him, radiating pure conceit.

It must be contagious. I suddenly mutate into the overbearing, sexist male figure that I had never thought I would be. I bound over to the rail and glare at the pipsqueak, stepping in front of Elizabeth and nudging her out of the boy's view. "Why don't you just take your stupid self and your stupid navy ship away from us?" I say irritably.

I whip around and highhandedly grab Elizabeth's letter as if it is mine and rip it open with impatience, waving off the kid like I am some pompous caricature of a millionaire. The handwriting looks familiar—and it's in pencil. My eyes narrow. _Have pencils even been invented yet?_ I ignore Elizabeth's indignant little sounds of protest and raise my eyebrows as I read the letter. It's absolutely ludicrous. And it's signed by my sister.

_Dearest Elizabeth,_

_I am sorry that I have left you on such short notice, and even sorrier to that I will never see you again. I have found someone that I truly love (he is a math/science dude, and you know how I just love math and science), and have eloped with him. Share this wonderful news with my brother. I'm sure he will be quite interested to know also that I've become a devout Buddhist. Also tell my brother that I hate the French composer, Claude Debussy, and have given up writing so that I can have more time to take up calculus and construct my own computer using only toothpicks, licorice drops and a fan. My snooklekins will help me. Please do not come after me. I am perfectly happy learning calculus from my darling snooklekins and trying to build a computer._

_Best in all that you do. Tim, remember to work on your vowels; keep them open, especially when you sing high, otherwise you go sharp._

_Goodbye my darlings. And remember: 8, 5, 12, 16—13, 5!_

_Earnestly,_

_Emily Cheng_

_Has she gone mad?_ Then it dawns on me. It's a code. My face breaks into a broad smile and in minutes I'm struggling to catch my breath, I'm laughing so hard. "My sister," I manage to say between laughs, "Is so weird."

The letter has taken the day and made it lighter. I snort. "Emily _hates_ calculus."

Elizabeth takes the letter from me with an imperious look of reproach and begins to read it. "Snooklekins," I snicker.

Elizabeth is now staring at the letter like it is a cute little dog that has just bitten her. Her mouth drops open. "What—" She doesn't even finish, staring at me as I bend over laughing.

I am overflowing with mirth. "It's the snooklekins that got to me," I tell her, laughing for a few more minutes until I'm probably blue in the face and then sighing. I grab the letter once more and reread the last few lines.

"_Best in all that you do. Tim, remember to work on your vowels; keep them open, especially when you sing high, otherwise you go sharp._

_Goodbye my darlings. And remember: 8, 5, 12, 16—13, 5!_

_Earnestly,_

_Emily Cheng"_

I glare good-naturedly at the first few lines. _Only Emily would bring up something like that, the snob,_ I think fondly. But the numbers are random to me—did she expect me to know what they mean? What does she think I am, a decoding genius with four years of spy-work under my belt?

_Well, maybe the genius part is true..._ I think jokingly to myself. I stare uncomprehendingly at the jumble of letters for a few minutes, probably looking pretty stupid, but then suddenly, it clicks.

"The letters of the alphabet!" I shout. "It corresponds!" I ignore the strange looks I am now getting and set to work.

" 'Help me,'" I muse out loud once I have decoded it. "That's helpful," I say sarcastically, and then mutter, "Uncommonly characteristic of her too… damned ambiguity…" Out of habit, I whip out my cell phone and flip it open in a swift movement. I'm about to smack myself over the head for my stupidity, but then the little screen flares to life, lighting up. My eyes grow wide as I go to 'Contacts' and find my sister's number. I press send…

* * *

**POV change, back to Emily**

* * *

I was sitting peacefully, curled up on the stomach of my own lovely person (strange sounding, isn't it?) when suddenly a strong vibration came from below. Immediately, I thought, _Earthquake! _but then a sharp, pinched sound in high pitches met my ears. It sounded distinctly like a mousy version of Beethoven's fifth… I pounced on my human body's jean pocket, leaving my paw there and feeling it vibrate. _My phone is ringing?_

The phone buzzed and dinged in a way that was borderline tuneless.

_My phone is ringing!_ I frowned and analyzed the statement.

_Wait._

_My phone is charged?_ It lapsed into silence, and then started up again. I stared in awe and the vibrating lump. _So there is a God..._

But it felt wrong… it felt wrong in the same way things had felt wrong when I first turned into a cat, and the woman that I now suspected was the murderer (and perhaps a time-traveler) stood by, grinning maliciously as if she had something to hide... I meowed indignantly at her haughtiness, asking, _What are _you_ so smug about?_ Her smile broadened, and suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore, I leaped for her with fire in my veins and clawed at whatever I could find. There was something rising in me, threatening to spill over, or snap like a twig, some crucial thing that held my personality in place. It was like a red curtain of hatred and lust for her blood fell in front of me, and I could feel my emotions rising in a heady swell. I was morbidly satisfied to see that there were several crimson gouges in her face, but her features quickly twisted into a grimace and she made a quick hand gesture as consciousness began to dim…

I opened my eyes and realized with a jolt that I could see in color. The vivid blue of the woman's skirt was now evident more than ever before, and the enormous rubies dangling from her ears shone a brilliant crimson hue of red in my improved vision. Heavy gold and silver bangles weighted down her arms and winked in my newly clarified sight. It was amazing—like I had imagined drugs might be like. _Human again! _was my first exultant thought. My phone was still ringing in a way that struck me as almost frantic, so I grabbed it and stared dumbly at it for a long moment. Not smart. The murderer (pretty damn sure now) came at me, dropping Tansy-Previously-Myself to the ground in a heap (I winced in sympathy for the poor traumatized cat) and barreling over to me. She grabbed a clump of hair just as I answered the phone and mercilessly yanked my head back. I yowled like a cat (haha) and then said, harried and rather distracted, into the phone, "Hello?"

"Emily!" came an urgent voice. "It's Tim! Where are you?" The woman was clawing at my scalp with long, red fingernails and I was kicking frantically to get out of her hold. I finally managed to push her so that she fell over a small desk, bringing it down with her as she tumbled gracelessly to the floor.

"Emily? Are you there?? Answer me!!" He sounded slightly panicked. I didn't take the time to consider how the phones were working in the seventeenth century, I just thanked God that they were.

I was breathing hard. "Tim, I know who the murderer is," I panted. "And she's attacking me RIGHT NOW. HOLD YOUR FREAKING HORSES!!" I looked down in disappointment at my tragically clawless hands, and then prepared for the inevitable onslaught, looking around frantically for a weapon of some kind. No luck.

"You ruined my fun!" the woman screeched, running at me and punching me in what looked like a really rather professional uppercut that went to my gut.

The air left me in a WHOOSH and I wheezed in pain, looking at her with incredulity. "What?" I asked, slightly bewildered and completely out of breath. "What are you talking about?"

"Ugh!" she exclaimed disgustedly, shaking me and throwing me towards the wall. "You looked so _happy_!" I turned around to face her, confusion and annoyance writ across my face.

I kicked her, feeling obscurely satisfied by the sickening _**thunk**_ of flesh solidly against flesh. "What the Hell are you talking about?" I hissed. "And what's wrong with me being happy for once?!"

She kicked my leg back, making me hop around on one foot, wincing and rubbing my shin. "Because _I_ can't be happy!" she wailed, pushing me against the wall and pinning me there. "It's—not—fair!" Every word was punctuated with a sharp slap.

I took a deep breath and clamped my teeth firmly into her hand, feeling positively feral, and she gasped, drawing back and looking at the red teeth marks with amazement. "You sick freak!" I cried, turning and slamming _her_ against the wall. "Just because you're a depressed loser doesn't mean everyone else should be too!"

She screamed in frustration. "I wasn't until _you_ started messing it up!" She reached for my face, but I grabbed her hands and sunk my nails into her flesh. "Oow!"

I looked at her coldly as everything fell into place. She smelled of gasoline, she knew an uncommonly large amount of information about my life, she had a flair for the dramatic, and she had killed Richard. "You're the Nameless Wanderer, aren't you?"

She looked downcast and her hands flopped down almost comically in my 'The Hulk'™ (Broccoli Man, in my terms) grip. "How did you know?"

"Hello?? Gasoline??" I pointed out sarcastically. Her arms fell limply to her side and she sank to the ground, crying. I spat at her crouched form, feeling disgust course through me like a treacherous oil slick in my veins. "Wretch! Why did you have to bring me here in the first place?! It would have saved everyone involved a lot of pain!"

"You were miserable…" she protested weakly.

"Oh, you just wanted me to be happy," I mocked her sardonically, "Yeah, that's why you killed Richard and ripped me from my home and family!"

"I gave you your brother…" was her attempt to salvage herself, but she trailed off pathetically at my unyielding expression.

"I wouldn't have needed him if I wasn't here in the first place, which is _your_ doing, in case you forgot," I spat. I looked away from her horrible cowering self in revulsion. "You're disgusting."

The EITC kid stared at what was obviously his boss in horror as she sobbed, and turned to me with a question in his eyes and his bearing. I marched up to him with the will of Joan of Arc and grabbed his shoulder, wrenching him around. "Where are we heading, and what are our coordinates?" I asked him harshly.

He didn't answer my question. "Who's Richard?"

For a moment I just stared, but then I let loose a wail that was probably heard in China and tears streamed down my cheeks. "You _would_ ask! He was supposed to be my husband! But thanks to that stupid—fool!—over there," I stopped and pointed accusingly. "He's dead!" I took a deep shuddery breath. "So tell me where we are! I'm desperate!"

He looked at me for a moment, and then over to the Nameless Wanderer who had collapsed into tears even more, falling in on herself. It was as if she was shrinking into her skin, shriveling up like a raisin in the run. He pursed his lips, then his somewhat resigned eyes finally came back to me. "We're headed for the Bahamas. Nassau, in particular."

I repeated this to Tim, who then said, "Where are you presently?"

A pause as I interrogated the EITC kid. "76oW, 21oN."

"Don't move."

He hung up.

"It's not as if I'm in charge here," I murmured dryly to the empty silence of the phone. The crew had congregated about us and I hastily shoved the phone back in my pocket for fear of being accused of witchcraft and burned at the stake, looking around at the bearded faces that surrounded me. Not a girl in sight. I felt ready to just crumple up on the floor and die, but the crew was looking expectantly at me for some closure on their new situation. I closed my eyes briefly and then shook myself. "Alright everyone," I addressed them in my best voice of command. "I assume you were all hired by that woman over there. However, I would like to know which of you has some authority." I took a deep breath. "So anyone in a position of power—Captain, first mate and whatnot—please step forward so that I can have a little chat with you."

The bearded man who had fed me when I was a cat stepped forward, as did a hardened sailor with a swarthy, tan face. "Name and position please, gentlemen." I heard a few chortles from the crew, considered making rude gestures in response, but ultimately decided to ignore their obvious disrespect for me.

The lean man, a wiry, nimble-looking fellow with a glint in his eye that spoke of a desire for things of an adventurous nature, flashed me a grin that rivaled Jack at his most charmingly impertinent. "Jared McCulloch. Captain," said the lean man, giving a quick and slightly mocking salute.

The bearded man went next. He was of a taller stature, burly, with a firm stance that was reminiscent of a rooted tree. "Andrew Wilson, first mate," he said, his voice resonating like that of a trained baritone, or perhaps a bass.

I waited for more men to step forward. I tapped my foot impatiently, glanced around at the men expectantly—all efforts that yielded nothing. I frowned. _Something is not right here... _"Correct me if I'm wrong… but aren't there more authority figures on ships?" My eyebrows were arched in mild inquiry, but my tone of voice was rather commanding.

McCulloch shrugged. "Not this one." He grinned again, showing a long line of pearly white teeth. "The crew's been pretty skewed from the start."

I looked at them both with some level of distrust. "Meaning…?"

When they hesitated to respond, a new voice joined the conversation, a young sailor who looked relatively knowledgeable and spoke with a subtle trace of a Cockney accent. "The normal hierarchy's been botched, miss. That is, there's been no real order from the start."

"But it's not really anarchy, nor is it autonomy," I interpreted.

"That's true enough, miss, but it's somewhat like the system of government that the Frenchies 'ad sometime ago."

I raised my eyebrows. "Excuse me if I don't know France's complete history," I said dryly. "Might you explain?"

"Oligarchy, like," he said shortly. _Not monarchy? _I wondered, but he interrupted my thoughts, grinning. "We peasants were about ta' revolt, as it were, but instead, _you_ did."

I looked him up and down thoughtfully for a moment. He was a lanky stick of a boy, with knobby knees and hands and a flippant crown of brown hair. His dark eyes were too large in his thin face and he had the awkward look of a person who has not finished growing. He did, however, have the golden glow of a person who has spent time in the sun, and I surmised that he would be quite popular in the 21st century. "What's your name?" I asked of him warily.

He saluted cheekily. "Jonathon Stewart, at ya' service, mum." Again, the grin. It seemed I was not fated to be respected in the setting of a ship in the seventeenth century. Big surprise there. "Or Johnny, if y'like."

I pursed my lips. "Hmm… well, Mr. Stewart." My eyes narrowed in warning, my chin lifting in something too much like defiance. "I'm certainly not a supporter of mutiny, if that's what you were trying to suggest."

"How could you think such a thing?" he asked indignantly in mock outrage, spreading his hands wide with a vacant, innocent look on his face and a glassy sheen to his eyes.

I sighed. "I can't deal with this right now," I mumbled incoherently, sitting cross-legged on the floor and adopting a position of meditation. It never exactly worked to actually clear my mind, but it certainly helped to make people go away.

The EITC kid tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up inquisitively. "I'm Eric, by the way, so if you ever need anything from the galley, ask me," he said sympathetically with uncharacteristic kindness. "Since I obviously am not capable of doing anything else," he added acerbically to himself.

I smiled politely. "Thank you." My voice came out quieter than I had meant it to, with a rasp of tiredness.

His face contorted with pity before he swiftly tucked it away and nodded, leaving as the crew began to disperse. My eyes shut as my breath whooshed out in relief and I was finally alone with my thoughts.

_Please Tim... Come soon. I can't handle much more of this... _I prayed briefly. _God help me._

**a/n: so??**


	34. The end is near

**A/N: The end is near. One more chapter after this one and the story is complete. It's been awesome folks. Hope you liked it. Eternal thanks to all reviewers. I owe you guys.**

My hands were pinned beneath me as I blearily began to wake. I awoke with the pleasantly tingling heat of the sun on my bare skin and something harsh and coarse against my cheek, wondering when I had fallen asleep.

_Wait a minute, bare skin?_

My eyes snapped open as I jolted to wakefulness, bolting up to a sitting position and looking down at myself in horror. I grimaced, thinking, _Sullied and unusual indeed._

The Caribbean can be surprisingly cold when your upper half is completely naked.

I let out a string of curses that were astonishingly apt in describing my situation, but a bit graphic for a memoir that could be read by anyone at anytime. I heard coarse laughter around me as I crossed my arms firmly across my small and rather too exposed chest. I was in the middle of the uppermost deck of the ship, the _Dolphin_, my back open to the salty sea air and bright Caribbean sunlight. My eyes narrowed dangerously. "_Where are my clothes?_" I growled, looking about at the numerous jeering faces with hooded eyes.

No one responded.

Naturally, I cursed the air blue. I believe I may have vowed once that I would never use the F-word in speech, no matter how irked. Needless to say, I reneged my pledge. When I'd made the promise, I'd obviously not expected to end up surrounded by a ring of disgustingly perverse sailors, bra-less and topless. I spotted my bra in the hands of one man and snatched it from him with a feral growl, swiftly snapping it back where it belonged—covering my boobs. I finally was comfortable uncrossing my arms, but I wasn't exactly happy with the crew either.

"_**WHAT THE HELL DID YOU WHORESON BASTARDS THINK YOU WERE DOING?!?!?!?**_" was how I expressed my displeasure.

I'm sure I sounded ever so calm and reasonable.

"_**GIMME MY**_" —censored— "_**SHIRT!!!**_"

Silence in the ranks as a cotton bundle was tossed my way. I shoved it on haphazardly (I think it may have even gone on backwards) and my hands flew to my hips.

One brave, lone crewmember stepped forward to explain. "We—uhh…"

I didn't give him a chance. Before he could say anything, I screamed, "_**GO TO HELL, LOSERS!!!**_" He stepped back raising his hands in something like defense.

Hey, gimme a break, if random seventeenth century creepazoids (that's a technical term) stole your shirt (and bra) while you were sleeping peacefully, you'd be pissed too.

I heard several mutterings of things like, "Crazy chit," and, "We was jus' havin' a little fun is all," and, "Good for nuffing bitch." I whirled around and glared squinty eyed at everyone, turning to all sides like a trapped animal and baring my teeth at random sailors who probably weren't even guilty anyway. Once I realized that no one was attacking me, I dropped the lame fighting stance.

"I can't believe it's taken this long but finally at long last I'm going barmy!" I cried in a singsong mush of words, sinking gracelessly to the deck of the _Dolphin_. I looked around curiously for Eric, but couldn't spot him. I heaved a sigh of relief. Somehow I know it would be the last straw if he had been involved in the… event that had taken place. Muttering things under my breath about desperately perverted sods, I pushed myself up and shuffled down the stairs to 'check up' on the Nameless Wanderer.

The strange woman was sprawled in a graceless heap on the wooden floor (which made me hope maliciously that she had gotten a splinter or two). Her eyes had glazed over, turning glassy as she stared numbly at nothing in particular. She did not seem to notice my entrance even though I tripped on the last few steps and landed noisily at the foot of the stairs in an awkward position something like a split (painful, that). I wondered if perhaps she was in a coma. It took seven of my rudest pokes to wake up her seemingly miniscule situational awareness.

"Sit up," I ordered. She complied with something remarkably close to relief in her profile, as if she were more used to commands than anything else. She brought her knees into her chest, peering out at me with the expression of a lost and slightly forlorn child. It painted a rather sympathetic picture, what with the angry red ring of teeth marks—_did I do that?_—and the scratch on her face—_ouch_—as well as other numerous cuts and bruises. I winced slightly in sympathy and rubbed my sore shoulders.

I decided to start from the beginning. "What's your name?"

"Cassandra Tallis," she said quietly, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

I stuck out my hand for her to shake. She stared at it uncomprehendingly as if it were about to bite her (an understandable belief from her experiences with me up close and personal). When she continued to stare blankly, I finally just grabbed her hand and shook it, saying brusquely, "Emily Cheng."

"Alright, I'm going to ask you some questions Cassie—can I call you Cassie?—about why exactly you have decided to ruin my life," I said with a hard gaze, my tone steely and unyielding. "Let's see…" I pretended to consider, tapping my foot. My voice turned flat. "Why did you decide to ruin my life?"

She cocked her head to one side. "I don't understand why you keep saying that. I was just experimenting."

All I could do was blink. For ten minutes, all I did was blink at her, completely unable to fathom what she had just said. She pulled out a notebook and a pen, flipping it open, recording something in what looked like a table and then pausing to observe me. "You're very strange," she commented conversationally.

I thought my eyes would pop out of my head. "What is that?" I finally asked, pointing, flabbergasted, at the chart.

"What is what?" she asked in a slightly confused manner, frowning and then looking in the direction of my shaking finger. "Oh. It's my data."

I felt my left eye begin to twitch and the instant it did, she wrote something in very neat and precise handwriting on the table. I closed my eyes to regain my thoughts and composure, counting slowly and inwardly to ten in my second language and then taking a deep breath, saying at a snail's pace, with the air of one trying to figure out something particularly puzzling, "Are you trying to tell me—in an oblique and annoyingly vague way—that I am a _test subject_?" I spat the last words like a curse.

Her eyes darted frantically around the room, never landing on me. She tapped her pen in thought, seeming to consider answering the question. "Well, that would ruin the data, wouldn't it?" she said uncertainly, still not looking at me.

I pinched the inside of my arm to check that I was awake—ouch. Definitely awake. I closed my eyes tight against the unprecedented hatred inside me. "Answer the question," I commanded evenly.

There was a pause, a moment of silence that grated on my nerves; then a tentative:

"Yes."

The hatred surged inside me, tasting foul in my mouth and pulsing like bursts of fire through my veins. I could feel my hand twitching into a fist and it took a concerted effort to regain control of myself. I finally reopened my eyes and barely managed to hiss coldly, "Why?"

"You ask for answers that you know you won't like," she replied evenly, neatly sidestepping the question. "I have no guarantee that you'll control your temper. Even if you promised not to, emotion is a dangerous thing, and not always entirely controllable."

I opened my mouth to protest that I have perfectly fine control over myself thank you very much, but she beat me to speaking. "If you want proof, I have it. I have several instances written down where you have lost your temper."

"In those cases, I wasn't trying to keep it in control!" I shouted, further proving her point. "Damn it," I muttered to myself. I stood, tired of my investigation. "I should kill you."

"Sail ho!" came the cry from above.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "But I don't have the guts." I sighed. "Come with me," I ordered wearily, and we both trudged up the stairs and into the brightness of the sunshine. In the distance was a ship with black sails, coming regally around the back of our ship like a proud, stately matriarch. Jack was at the wheel and my brother stood at the rail as the ship came alongside.

Tim wordlessly pressed a jagged edge of metal into my hand and as I looked down at it, and what winked up at me was a key that read, "_CQ, The Dolphin_." I silently hopped over the rail of the _Pearl_, padding over to Jack where he stood at the helm. As I shook his hand, I left the key with him. Perhaps he would fix up the ship's hierarchy. I walked once more back to my brother and the woman who caused me so much grief. I turned to Cassandra Tallis, Nameless Wanderer, time traveler, and murderer and said quietly, "Take us home."

And so with one last wave at _The Pearl_ and the crew of _The Dolphin_, consciousness faded.

Home had never tasted so bittersweet.


	35. or not

**A/N: i lied. i should have two or three more chaps outta this puppy. please review! don't expect an update soon, as i'm at camp and writing my butt off already. :) please enjoy!**

"How are you feeling?"

I looked up from the perniciously stubborn worksheet I was working on with a no doubt blank look on my now tan face. It was a good question. How _was_ I feeling? It had been some time (say, in the range of several months) since my return to my own time period and I was only just becoming reacquainted with the modern sensibilities that I had once held so dear. Math was just as loathsome as ever, I daydreamed just as often as before—no, _more_ than I had before, I played just as much piano, sang just as randomly (for instance, in the middle of the hallway on the way to history class), procrastinated just as much as I did before. All in all, not all that much had changed…

Except, of course, fanfiction.

It pained me to see those words marching sternly like little electronic martinets across the jarringly bright screen of the monitor. My full to bursting and copious fanfiction notebooks mocked me, but I couldn't bear to throw them away. I packed them away in a box to gather dust among the dirt and cobwebs of the basement, burying the precious faded pages beneath hefty sheaves of magazines from the eighties (don't ask) and children's books.

And the movies. Don't even get me started. When my friends excitedly showed me the teaser trailer for the third movie (they knew I had been obsessed) I nearly fainted and then locked myself in my room for an hour to recover from the shock.

Of course, on the upside, I had also gone suddenly and unexpectedly into the realm of being a size four in jeans and a beast at sports (swimming and track in particular), which would normally have given me major hysterics from excitement. But the small triumph did little to raise my low spirits. In some ways, I was glad to be back, but just like a five-year-old deprived of sweets, I was sour about not completely getting my way.

But, of course, I didn't exactly know how to switch time periods at will, and I wasn't about to delve into the shady world of witchcraft just to find out, so it's not as if I was about to get what I wanted anytime soon. Instead, I commiserated on my own or studied.

It's so invigorating to have so many, exciting, and varied options of how to spend (or waste, if you want to split hairs) my valuable time.

Where I stumbled over myself trying to recover from my distressing experiences, my brother (of course) slipped back into his life with minimum repercussions and enviable ease. Then again, he hadn't let himself get attached like I had. He always kept things in perspective…

I hadn't told anyone about my… problem. Sure, I had friends, but if your friend came up to you and started babbling hysterically (something I seemed to do more often than not) about time traveling to POTC all the while sobbing and pleading for them to please, please, please, not tell dear old mummy and daddy, not to mention cursing some 'nameless wanderer' fellow, how would you react? You'd spill the beans. _Any_ good friend would. Which is why I suffered in silence, a wandering specter in a world so full of life.

Every Saturday morning when I bought my Guilt Free™ (low-fat, no-sugar, no joy, that is) iced coffee at the coffee shop across from the library, I would take a sip of my coffee, decide that it was unworthy of my attention, and feed it to the panting dog that sits outside the door, who would crunch up the ice cubes in his powerful doggie jaws. I would pat his head, say, "Good dog," and then I would sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, feeling every inch the wannabe-college-student, and trek to the library, where I would walk into a veritable blast chiller wearing short-shorts, a tank top and old flip flops. As she did everyday, the librarian, a modest young woman named Susan, would say, "Good morning, Emily. How's school?"

And as I did every Saturday morning, I would reply with cynical humor, "What can I say? It's school."

From there, I would trip over that annoying shelf that protrudes awkwardly from the wall, hop around for a bit muttering things about evil shelves taking people by surprise, and then half-hop half-limp over to the section on maritime history. And then I would grab the nearest tome on the 17-18th centuries and sit there, reading it, until high noon hit, at which time I would stumble out, squinting, into the sunlight, and grab a not-very-tasty muffin from that stupid yet convenient coffee place with bad coffee and barely serviceable muffins across the road.

I was convinced that I was the only person keeping them in business.

A bite of the stale, crumbly muffin and then it went in the dog's dish and I cut a diagonal over to the little Greek place for spanikopita.

_Olives_ was not a particularly large or prestigious diner. Rather, it was a small quasi-American diner whose American food tasted suspiciously like feta cheese, olives and spinach. They had a standard fare American menu ("You want what kind of burger? Veggie burger? I'll tell him to add some carrots to the beef, okay?") and a Greek menu ("Ah, you want good Greek food; I'll tell him to make an extra side of dolmades just for you, eh?") I ate in silence and left in silence then it was off again to the library until one of my various friends decided to drag me away from whatever text I was imbibing.

Today was one such Saturday, and my friend Priyanka had picked me up with the intention of taking me shopping, but in the end, we ended up studying in a _different_ library (one that allowed food) two blocks down for a project that she had due on Monday.

Priyanka waved a hand incredulously in front of my face, breaking my rambling train of thought. "Emily?" she questioned, peering curiously into my face. She raised her eyebrows. "Anybody home?"

I shook myself like a dog shakes off water, refocusing on her and spreading my lips in a wan, weak smile. "Sorry. My mind wandered," I explained distractedly.

She laughed it off, taking a sip of soda. My mouth watered and after some small hesitation I reached for my water bottle (still wasn't quite used to thinking of water as particularly safe). "No problem. Where'd it go?"

I looked at her with reproach as if she'd bitten me. "Nowhere," I said defensively, returning my gaze to the annoyingly blank whiteness of my math homework.

She shrugged, but looked unconvinced as I hid my still unfinished math homework out of sight in my dysfunctional folder. _Wonder how the terrible trio is doing... _I thought wistfully, summoning up their faces in my mind's eye with a deep sigh. _Even Dorian... perhaps he's as successful as he wished he would be, the ambitious prick, _I ruminated fondly. Tears prickled in my eyes as the image I continuously tried to block burned itself into my watering eyes, but I didn't even dare voice the name in my thoughts.

Again, Priyanka's hand found its way to that annoying spot only a few inches away from my face. "Hellooo??"

"Hmm??"

"I was saying that you've been very out to lunch lately."

I instantly opened my mouth to retort, but she preceded me with a smug, but teasing, "Don't even try to deny it, you'll lose yourself and then just further prove my point."

The annoying part was that it was true. _Damn it._

She looked at me ponderingly. "What's up, anyway? Did something happen?"

I opened my mouth to say, _That's a gross understatement,_ but then closed it quickly, just in time. If I had said something that cryptic, she would have immediately pounced.

Alas, not quick enough. "What were you going to say?" Priyanka interrogated me cunningly.

I squirmed like the lousy worm I was. "I was going to lie and say 'no,'" I told her frankly. _A lie within a lie..._ I pondered.

"Well then, what happened? And no lies!"

A pang of pain thumped in my chest at the familiar afterthought and I fought to recollect my wits. "I… did badly a math test." It wasn't technically a lie, but it tasted like one in my mouth, foul and oddly disgusting, especially for a person who lies all the time. _You'd think a person would get used to it after a while._

"Oh." As she spoke, the pain grew excruciatingly sharper, like a jagged, wooden spike driving in my chest and lodging itself there. "What did you get?"

"66," I deadpanned monotonously.

"Ouch."

"Yeah." The pain faded, leaving me feeling like I was a hollowed-out shell, like I had been scooped out of my body with one of those little forks they use for escargot and left to crumple and die under the glare of the cheap fluorescent lights.

"Well," she said, standing and tapping her plastic folder. She made a face. "I have to go find a book that paints Hitler in a sympathetic way."

"Good luck," I said weakly after her, staring at the distant vending machine like it would miraculously come to life and give me a fully typed, annotated packet of the answers to my homework. No such luck. I continued to stare in these hopes as the sharp outlines of the machine turned soft, blurring into one another until the lower half of someone obtruded in my vision. I frowned and looked up to see who it was—

Oh. My. God.

"The unspeakable has happened," I muttered to myself crazily, shuffling my papers for something to do, something to do instead of staring at that person; that annoying and shocking protrusion to my vision—that distracting, meddlesome, dimensionally and historically misplaced… male. I had obviously gone insane. _That's it,_ I thought. _I'm seeing things. That's not really who I think it is. _"Jousting at windmills and all that," I murmured to myself, my head tilting to one side as if my neck couldn't hold it up anymore, that's how flabbergasted I was. The veritable sheaf of papers in front of me held on top the notes from my most recent math failure. I stared at them without comprehension, far from able to concentrate on the equation of a hyperbola. When I looked up he was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief. _So it was a vision, and I'm just going insane. I'm okay with that_, I thought. Someone with a great resemblance to one of my best friends slid into the chair next to mine, but from the corner of my not-very-good peripheral vision, it seemed as if he had shaved, gotten a haircut, and lost his glasses. I tried once more to concentrate on the math, but my blank staring was interrupted by one word. I froze like a deer caught in glaring headlights. And as the man beside me spoke that one word, I couldn't turn; I was paralyzed.

"Abigail?"


	36. Still Not Dead Yet

**A/N: still not over yet. sorry. enjoy!**

I may have been speechless, but Priyanka was not. "Hey, who's this?" She slid back into her seat with a book that read, _Fun with Hitler in the Meadow_, and another that read, _My Years Among the Dancing Nazis_.

I gaped and sidestepped the question. "How did that get published?"

"Lax standards."

I grabbed it. "_Fun with Hitler in the Meadow_?!"

She snatched it back. "Very lax standards. Anyway, who's your friend?"

"Priyanka, this is Richard. Richard, this is Priyanka." Priyanka raised her eyebrows incredulously just as Richard very politely stretched out a white-gloved hand for her to shake. I shook my fist dramatically and looked heavenwards. "Curse you, Cassie Tallis! May you forever be plagued by frogs and other slimy amphibians!"

"Abigail… this is an amazing coincidence!" I couldn't look at him. I was too afraid of what I would see.

I turned to Priyanka. "Do you see him too?" My voice became a hushed but vehement hiss. "Do you see the anachronism sitting right here, in this room? Or have I gone nuts?!" I rapidly crumpled up a piece of paper that was probably something important. My voice was strangled sounding and shrill to my own ears. "Somebody shoot me!"

She didn't look at me, staring doubtfully at my dearly beloved. "That won't change the fact that he's definitely here." Her eyes flicked up. "Top hat and all. Besides, it's the library; imagine the scene you'd make."

I barely managed to bottle a scream. I thought for a moment that perhaps I was hyperventilating—but no, that's when you breathe too much, and I wasn't breathing at all…

Just as Richard shouted, "Abigail," Priyanka cried with something like exasperation, "Emily, you're turning blue!" The latter person slammed into me, knocking us both over, and I gasped suddenly for the air that I had lacked.

"Abigail, what's wrong?"

Priyanka hastily rolled off of me as I cried into the library's hideous carpet, my voice muffled. "I don't understand! I saw you lying facedown in the dirt!" I hiccupped loudly and gave a pathetic sniffle. "You were dead; I saw you!"

I froze as the surroundings began to melt away. _The carpet is—_ Slowly I sat back up, staring at the carpet. "What the—" I stopped. It was the hideous oriental carpet. We were in the Swann's library; I knew it. I little by little lifted my gaze to Richard who was wearing—_oh my god_—

The same outfit he wore the day he died.

I looked around for my schoolbooks. They were gone. My eyes narrowed. "Where's Priyanka?" I asked, shuffling clumsily to my feet.

Her voice came from behind me. "Right here. The real question is where are _we_?"

Richard laughed. "That's easy, the Swann household." He paused, tapping his cane against the floor. "An extensive library you have here," he commented, taking a few steps closer.

My body went completely rigid. I felt as if I were reading lines from some sick twisted play. "N-n-not mine," I managed to stutter shakily. _I must be dreaming. _I sank quickly into the nearest chair, my knees knocking together in shock. A hefty book lay open on the old fashioned desk in front of me.

"Hangover cures?" he read over my shoulder, mildly amused.

I blinked dazedly at the melting candles and the tall, imposing shelves. The air smelled of polishing wax, dust, and old books. _This is impossible._ Everything was the same. I looked down—I even had the correct clothes on—an old robe and a chemise. It was like a replay of the day that Richard died, only a very confused Priyanka was at my side, sending me questioning glances every now and then.

"If you've a headache some ground willow bark would probably do the trick," Richard suggested, just as he had on that day.

I felt like I was watching a video of myself. My mind was like a scampering mouse in a too small cage, darting around frantically, trying to find the misplaced wire, trying to find the loophole that had led to the whole mess. He looked at me expectantly. I shook myself. "Where might I find some willow?" I asked almost robotically. _Oh God, this can't be happening._

"There's probably some in a cabinet somewhere," he said considerately. "Ask Elizabeth, or one of the servants. They'll likely know."

I shut the book like a ghost, rising, replacing the book and then turning back to Richard. I was just going through the motions, disbelieving. "So. What brings you to the Swann's house at such an ungodly hour?" I asked, glancing down at my fraying robe. I forced some life into my smile.

He laughed. "The hour is not so ungodly. It's nearly half past nine."

"Really?" I exclaimed, just as I had before. Priyanka gave me a piercing look that demanded an explanation. I sent her a pleading look in an attempt to appease her. "Da—Drat!" I said to Richard.

"Good luck with the willow," he said. "But I'd best be off." He nonchalantly tipped his top hat, suavely kissed my hand, and then was gone, leaving with the click of an urbane boot-heel and the swish of a dashing cape. I let him go as before, staring off, dazed.

_Enter Elizabeth, upstage,_ I thought. "Emily was that—Mr. Carlton? What are you doing in the library?" Elizabeth asked, looking flabbergasted.

"What's going on?" Priyanka demanded, rounding on me with an expression fit for violence.

I finally was brought back to sickening awareness like a punch to the face, feeling the need to hurl. My stomach dropped. I answered neither question as the blood drained from my face. "Oh my God… I've made a terrible mistake." I pounded out of the library with Priyanka and Elizabeth at my heels, my heartbeat thundering in my ears, my stomach fluttering. I had one chance to save him, and this was it.

I frenetically sought out the garden, coming to a screeching halt at the white door and bursting violently through it just in time to watch Cassandra Tallis pull out a gleaming gun from the folds of her coat. "No!" I screamed, hurtling towards her like a flying bullet. I was so slow—and the gun was so fast—I could hear the click of its popping safety as I neared her. "Richard! Watch out!"

Confused, but compliant, he ducked, and the too-familiar flintlock pistol began to go off just as I rammed into her, throwing her off to the side so that the bullet glanced harmlessly into a rose bush. I grabbed her scrawny wrist. "This woman should be arrested for attempted murder!" I shouted wildly, grabbing the other hand and pinning them behind her back.

All the screaming had attracted the attention of the functional equivalent of a police force, and in no time, Cassandra and I were surrounded with a thousand gleaming muzzles of guns, glinting in the sunlight. There were a million clicks as every man cocked his gun to fire and blast our heads off. "Don't shoot!" Priyanka cried. She waded through the armed men, pointing at me. "This girl apprehended a potential murderer."

Elizabeth, not to be outdone, was right behind her, radiating the air of a queen. "Lower your weapons," she ordered sharply, elbowing her way to the center. "Do as I say, or you'll all have the devil to pay," she threatened.

They looked around dubiously at each other, until finally they pushed one forward, who was fiddling somewhat nervously with the hem of his finely pressed lobster-red coat. "Begging your pardon, but who are you, to give us orders, miss?"

She gave him a look that would have melted the polar ice caps and boiled all the lakes and rivers into nothingness. "I am Elizabeth Swann, the governor's daughter. Put your weapons down this instant!"

Reluctantly, they complied, lowering their guns with questioning glances at me as I fought to keep the Nameless Wanderer from bolting. "We all saw it—this woman tried to kill Richard Carlton, that man over there," I said breathlessly, gesturing in various directions while trying to maintain control over the Nameless Wanderer. Two men grabbed her as the others (the other witnesses to the attempted crime, that is) nodded their assent. In this time period, it was enough for a death sentence, but I did not think about the woman I had just sent to death.

Priyanka tilted her head ponderously to one side as the guards carted the obscenely screeching Nameless Wanderer away. "How did you know that she was going to try to murder him?"

I grimaced, handing the gun to one of the guards left as if it were something particularly disgusting, not wanting to touch it. "It's… complicated." Finally the last of the guards left, leaving Priyanka, Elizabeth, me, and Richard behind. Priyanka and Elizabeth exchanged knowing glances and then quietly left, tiptoeing back inside the house.

Psh, as if I didn't know what they were up to. "Abigail—" he started, but I interrupted him.

"That's not my name." He raised his eyebrows and I sighed. "That's an alias." I shrugged. "What can I say? I lied."

He blinked. "Evidently."

"Your consolation, I suppose, is that I lied to everybody, not just you," I ruminated jokingly. "Basically everyone thought my name was either Abigail or Cara."

"Which is it?"

"Neither. My name is Emily Cheng." I flashed him my most sardonic smile. "Nice to meet you." I looked down at the ground. "So… Do you hate me?"

He grinned. "No."

"Are you sure? After all, I lied to you," I put forth as a mild reminder.

"I can live with that." The grin grew wider and he snatched my hand. "What kind of marriage would it be if it couldn't survive one little lie?"

I gulped, wondering if I'd heard him correctly. "Marriage?"

He shrugged. "_I_ think we'll get along quite well."

He said it as if it was already bound to happen; I couldn't help but notice. I frowned, half tempted to say, _'That's irrelevant.'_ Instead, I said something just as practical. "What do your parents think?"

"My esteemed mother and father both think that I enjoy hunts, as I recall," he supplied cheekily.

I scowled and he relented, amending his statement and slipping his arm about my waist. "We'll just recount to them how you courageously saved my life; that should do it."

I snorted, letting him steer me into a different section of the extensive rose garden. A chill rippled down my back like a phantom of what could have happened in the innocuous setting and I shook it off, scoffing, "Courageously? You're joking. I was out of my mind with fear."

"Even so. Your devotion will impress them." He looked vaguely like he was trying to convince himself.

I smiled sardonically. "Right. And they won't notice my lack of decorum and inability to dance."

He began to hum and twirled me in a circle as if to prove me wrong. "One of your most endearing traits, I'm sure," he comforted me. He smiled, twirling me again and making me lightheaded. "Don't worry. I'll break it to them slowly."

One last spin in a tight circle and he placed me on a very conveniently located stone bench, seeming to enjoy having me slightly off balance (literally). As I gasped in air, trying to regain control of myself, he got down on one clichéd knee and pulled something from his pocket. His eyes shone and his hands were cupped, hiding their contents from view. "So, Emily, will you marry me?"

I was dizzy, relieved that Richard wasn't dead, emotionally zapped and tired. I wanted to cry, so instead of trusting my undependable voice, I opted to just nod. My first serious relationship, and I was being proposed to. Not only that, but I was agreeing! I had never even imagined. "Close your eyes," he said quietly, and as I complied, his fingers closed gently around mine, singling out my as of yet plain, unembellished ring finger. But instead of the smooth kiss of metal against my skin, the simple, obscurely pleasing roughness of what felt like hemp wrapped carefully around my finger. "You can open your eyes now."

I looked down and smiled almost shyly (_since when am I shy?_). "A piece of string, Richard?" I teased, fingering the tight knot.

He smiled, his hand closing over the makeshift ring. "It's the best I could do on such short notice." His eyes were strangely bright and his voice was quiet. "Now may I kiss the soon-to-be bride?"

I swallowed hard. "You're asking _me_?" As far as I could remember, I had only been kissed once—and that was by Jack, so of course he hadn't asked me as if I had an opinion. Richard nodded, but I couldn't speak once more, and found myself nodding.

His fingers laced with mine like the weave of cloth and his breath whispered across my lips as he leaned slowly in. His lips captured mine in a gentle kiss, warm and affectionate, full of promise and tenderness, so heartrendingly, achingly beautiful that I felt like I might cry.

And I did. But at least I had someone there to hold me.


	37. Epilogue

**A/N: Anyone who has an account on this site and who has been reading this story without reviewing, please please please review! I want to know who you are so I can thank you properly. Please, I want to hear your opinions! Even flamers! It's cold in here! **

**Thank you now to all of my readers, anonymous or not. I appreciate the time you put in to my not-very-good story (I did the Mary Sue Litmus Test and got a really bad score, so sorry that you all suffered through her trials). Thank you all for reading, and as always, I hope you enjoy!**

_Epilogue_

There are three days left before I am a married woman.

A wife.

But yet there are still so many questions left unanswered, and my sources of finding the answers are depleting fast—the Nameless Wanderer is set to hang soon, and though I questioned her once through the bars, she had gone into a lethargic 'trance-like' state, and could give no coherent answers.

I am all set to have my happy ending, but what of Priyanka? After I explained the whole mess to her, she marched off to the beach and mulled things over for at least an hour. At nightfall, I finally followed after her, trailing her circling sandy footsteps to come finally to a raised bluff, scoured by wind and spray. There she sat, brooding with the tracks of tears on her face. I could relate. After all, how had I felt when I'd first shown up in the wrong century? Pretty rotten, as I recall. My moral center is pulling me in so many different directions, and I can't tell what to do next. I finally have a shot at happiness, but at the expense of another? It's so hard to weigh my options with someone's life at stake; that much I can tell you. One would expect an epilogue to have all the answers. The happy ending. The snapshot of perfect bliss.

But it's never that way, is it? All the books and stories have it completely wrong. The heroes _don't_ always sail off into the horizon for one last grand adventure; they _don't_ always marry and live happily ever after. They have to make sacrifices. Surrender what is precious to them. And even so, only the noblest can do that. It is something that I am only realizing now—now that lives rest on my decision, now that my _happiness_ rests on my decision. But is there even a decision for me to make? Even if I decided to sacrifice myself, how would I bring Priyanka back to her time? I am not an expert (or even a novice) in witchcraft, and the Nameless Wanderer is beyond hope.

I do not know what lies beyond the horizon, for Richard, Priyanka, or even myself. But I do know that there's at least a 50-50 chance that we'll come out unscathed and tell the tale (with less profanity, of course) to our children. I just hope that fate is in all our favors when the time comes.

And so, readers, goodbye. Tomorrow will bring what it will. And I for one, look forward to seeing what comes along the way.

**A/N: One last overture. Please review. And anonymous reviewers, I'm so sorry, but I'm not allowed to let you review. :( **

**Thanks for reading! **

**Toodles! Hope to read you around (see you around, get it? Okay, so it was lame. Whatever.)**

**-c. c. (****better known here as music nerd.)**


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